


Space Oddity: Sci Fi AU

by abutterflyobsession, Donotquestionme



Category: Strange Magic (2015), Strange Magic - Fandom, strange magic fandom
Genre: Alien AU, F/M, Sci Fi AU, Strange Magic week, arranged magic au, emotional bond, shared pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:31:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abutterflyobsession/pseuds/abutterflyobsession, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donotquestionme/pseuds/Donotquestionme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In rescuing her sister Dawn from the natives of the planet they were exploring, Marianne finds herself captured and forced into a strange ceremony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Donotquestionme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donotquestionme/gifts).



“You will be killed.”

The words were out of sync with the movement of the king's lips, the translated words echoing in her ear, his actual voice a faint burr behind them. At the best of times the translator was distracting and it only got worse the further from English the language it was working with was. Now the dual voices buzzed painfully in Marianne's ears, almost drowned out by the ringing in her ears. The face before her swam in and out of focus, blue eyes peering through a fog before disappearing into a gray shadow.

“D-Dawn . . .” Marianne's throat was closing up and the single word cracked off her tongue only with great effort.

“Gone.” The word almost didn't echo, it's counterpart in the native language also a single syllable. It only made Marianne panic, fight to stand, fingers curling into fists on the dirt. The dizziness increased sharply and black spots blossomed in the fog that clouded her eyes. “Gone with the small one.” The king's voice said, speaking quickly, jarring with the translator's slower, methodical reiteration. “Back to your tribe.”

Marianne was shaking too hard to relax, but she slumped with relief. Dawn had gotten away. Sunny, too, it sounded like. Dying was almost worth it if she had saved them. Her only regret was that she hadn't gotten to see Roland one last time and smash his nose flat. At least she had gotten to punch the king. The memory of his stunned expression brought a smile to her lips even as she fought to force air through her constricting throat. She hadn't needed a translator to see his shock, the complete surprise that such a tiny thing had the guts to punch him in his own throne room, right in front of the assembled court.

The blow had been taken for the challenge it was and Marianne was glad he had taken it up. It felt good to use all her anger, all her hate, finally have a reason to let it all out. She'd carried her sword for so long and never had a chance to use it for anything but practice. It had begun to feel as useless and ornamental as she had come to think of herself, for all her rebellion against her father, for all her survival training, for all her attempts to make something useful out of the useless heiress she had been and feared she still was.

Marianne had raised her sword to free Dawn, but at the same time she had been thrilled by the adventure, by this alien cockroach king taking her seriously, treating her as a real threat. No one telling her that ladies didn't play with weapons, ladies didn't scream in fury, ladies didn't cackle with glee when they struck a blow against the enemy. At some point she had started enjoying the fight and she knew the king had too. The way he started showing off, spinning his staff and doing unnecessary flourishes told her that he was having fun and she started indulging in some fancy moves of her own, her laughter turning from mocking into simple pleasure. It was only when Dawn's yellow head had bobbed up in the crowd that Marianne remembered the purpose of the duel.

Brought back to reality, Marianne maneuvered the fight until their weapons crossed and his staff angled away from her. Then she retracted the blade, the purple glow of it's length vanishing. The king stumbled forward, staff slicing through empty air while Marianne danced to one side, thumbing the button to recall the blade, one continuous motion taking her out of the way of his clumsy attack and then slamming her blade hard against his back.

Then she had run.

Plunged into the crowd and grabbed her sister by the hand and run. When she pulled Dawn free of the crowd she found Sunny was clinging to her sister's other hand. The three of them had beat a hasty retreat while the king was still wheezing from the blow.

Marianne clung to the memory of Dawn's golden hair disappearing into the forest, of one last quick glance of blue eyes before her sister was gone. The last time Marianne would see her little sister again, the last time she would protect her.

But she had protected her. When it mattered Marianne had not been useless. Dawn was going to be safe, Dawn was going to be going home. The thought brought a smile to her face. A real smile. Not a mocking grin or forced grimace of politeness. Just a happy smile over a happy thought before the world, already gray and fuzzed around the edges, went black.

* * *

 

Bitter mixed with sweet filled her mouth and clogged her throat and she woke up choking on it. A leathery hand was clapped over her mouth and she was forced to swallow the vile liquid instead of spitting it out. Once it had slipped down her throat the hand came away and Marianne gasped in air.

Coughing and gasping, Marianne blinked hard, trying to clear her vision. It took her a little time to realize that the room was dim, not her eyes. A lamp burned a dull orange overhead and there were no windows to let in any indication of what time of day it was. The translator made a dull buzzing in her ear when someone made a gentle tsk tsk noise without actually articulating anything in words.

The tsking and buzzing only increased when Marianne tried to sit up and a hand pushed her shoulder and made her lay back down. “Now, now,” The voice said something more that the translator wasn't able to find an equivalent for but from the tone Marianne surmised it was probably something like “sweetie” or “dear”. The voice was motherly, in a rasping way.

While she caught her breath Marianne watched a squat alien with a shock of wiry, reddish hair fuss over the cuts on Marianne's hands. The deep scores she had gotten when she grabbed that plant, in that little walled off garden she had dragged Dawn and Sunny through in an effort to escape the pursuit. Thick, clear liquid had oozed from the barbs that snagged her skin, but she'd had no time to dwell on what that might mean until after she had been caught and her throat began to close up and block off her breathing.

She was breathing now.

Had the effects of the plant worn off? Or had someone treated her? If the latter . . . why?

But it didn't matter. Once she got back to the ship they could do some basic blood work and see if she needed any further treatment.

Yes. Get back to the ship.

Marianne let a giggle escape. How dramatic she had been, thinking she was dying. Slain in the brave and heroic rescue of her little sister. Now she just had to--

A door opened and more dull light cut into the room, casting a long jagged shadow across the stone floor. Amber gleamed faintly at the head of a staff and for a moment Marianne caught a glimpse of blue eyes.

“You will be killed.”

* * *

The king had said more but Marianne had stopped trying to puzzle out the spotty translation. They had treated her just so they could kill her more formally. That much she had deduced.

When she had flung herself at the king, making one last effort to fight before heavy toad-like guards had seized her, he had the grace to look away as if he were ashamed. Long, clawed fingers woven together and clicking restlessly, his face tucking lower and wincing as she shouted every foul thing she could think to throw at him. There was no way he literally understood but he appeared to be getting the gist of it anyway.

“Don't you dare think you've won!” She hissed at him when the guards bound her hands with strips of leather, “I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you the rest of your miserable life!”

“This . . .” The king said hesitantly, “I don't want.”

“Don't want? Don't want me giving you an earful? You're going to kill me! You can be sure that I'm going to tell you exactly what I think of you, you scaly-backed cockroach!”

The king obviously didn't understand and looked like he wanted to say something else but he fell silent and made no further attempts to talk to her.

The throne room was crowded with people again. “Goblins”, they had been nicknamed by someone in the exploration party. They looked like the creatures out of a fairy tale. One of the darker stories that didn't end with “happily ever after”. Marianne snorted at the thought. She'd long ago given up any expectation of gaining her own happily ever after. Goblins might be real, but fairy tales were still fairy tales and no fairy godmother or white knight was going to come bail her out. There was only Marianne and she seemed to have blown her last chance of escape when she got herself drugged by that stupid plant. If that hadn't happened she might have been fast enough to avoid those reaching claws, fast enough to make it to the ship.

Stupid, clumsy Marianne. Always screwing up. Couldn't have remembered to put on gloves or something. No, she had to go charging off to rescue her sister with nothing but white-hot anger and her beam sword.

Marianne's own words echoed back at her:

“What were you _thinking_?”

How many times had she demanded that of Dawn? And now she directed the question at herself as she was pushed up the steps toward the creepy throne that was constructed out of bone. It would be easy to say she had been thinking of Dawn, that she couldn't let her little sister be hurt. It would be true. But not the entire truth.

The truth was that Marianne had thrown herself headlong into every dangerous situation that came along, showboating like a fool and demanding that the universe acknowledge that she was brave, that she was strong, that she was significant. Now she was reaping the rewards of her foolhardiness. Now she would never see her little sister again. Never see her father again, never have a chance to reconcile with him . . .

Tears threatened to spill from her eyes and she blinked hard to drive them back. She wasn't going to let this alien king see her weakness.

She tore her thoughts away from regrets and thought instead about her imminent death. How would they do it? Quick? Likely not. The atmosphere reeked of ceremony and there were lines of goblins around the throne that held themselves with an air of importance, like high-ranking officials or nobility come to witness some important ritual. There was an unpleasant smugness in the expressions of some of them, their eyes glittering and directed at the king. Marianne glanced up at the sharp profile to see his reaction to this scrutiny, but the king was stalking forward with his eyes straight ahead and expression blank. Only the briefest sideways flicker of his eyes indicated that he noticed Marianne looking at him.

That carefully neutral expression was one Marianne was familiar with. She'd worn one like it often enough in the past, though hers had been a mask of a weak smile and not the grim lines that the king's face fell into. Mask was the word for it. Playing a role, acting as was expected of you. What role was the king being forced into?

Not that it mattered.

Marianne was still going to die.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek and tried to suppress the wave of panic threatening to crash over her. She was unarmed, tied up, and surrounded by guards. Another wild dash for freedom would be expected and there would not be the confusion of the duel to cover her retreat.

There was no way out.

She was going to die.

The realization shocked her to her core and the sounds of the crowded room, the king speaking, some ceremony beginning, all turned to buzzing in her ears. She was pushed into place and led through some motions she didn't understand. It was all she could do to keep breathing, not to scream that it wasn't fair, that she didn't want to die.

A veiled goblin fluttered up the steps, her form entirely lost in layers of trailing blue veiling that sparkled like dew-covered cobwebs. Marianne couldn't make out anything about the creature except that they were small and slight, and that they had only three fingers and a thumb on each pale, thin hand. They had a mortar and pestle made of twinkling blue-gray stone and two even smaller veiled figures hastened to set a table on the dais so they could set them down.

Marianne's breath hitched when the veiled goblin produced a butterfly creature with beautiful purple wings laced with black edges, placed it in the mortar, and carefully began to grind it to paste, the wings fluttering helplessly until the pestle ground them to stillness. Marianne checked to see if the king had noticed her reaction, but he was staring slightly over her head, seeing nothing, hands gripping the shaft of his staff so tightly that his gray knuckles were showing white.

The veiled goblin worked with quick, deft movements, pouring from bottles, mixing, grinding powders and plants, until suddenly everything was gone except the mortar, full of some thick paste. Everything else whisked away by her helpers.

Marianne eyed the paste. Was it poison? Was she going to have it forced down her throat?

The king moved and Marianne flinched, planting her feet and hunching her shoulders, readying for an attack even though her hands were still tied behind her. But he merely tapped his scepter on her shoulder, turning her sideways until he could reach over and sever her bonds with one black claw. Irritation surged up and overpowered fear when she saw the faint smile on his lips. Laughing at her useless bravado. She glared darkly at him, but the smile had vanished and he averted his eyes again. The transparent wings on his back flickered, just a bit, like someone nervously shuffling their feet. He handed his staff to someone behind him and flexed his empty fingers nervously.

With her hands free Marianne's options were slightly wider. All of them ultimately ended in her dead, of course, but how she got there might vary. For instance, she now had the possibility of breaking that ridiculously long nose before they cut her down. Her eyes flicked up and down the king, noticing once more that his plates of armor made it completely inconvenient to deliver any potentially disabling blows to his body. She'd break her hand, most likely, and he at the most would be bruised. A strike to the throat or face would be the most effective.

As if anticipating this she found the king's hand wrapped around her wrist. His huge hand and long fingers caged her forearm and her heart started racing because she had no idea what he planned to do next and if she struggled those claws could slice her right to the bone.

She fought anyway, digging her fingers into the exposed flesh on the underside of his forearm, hoping if she hit the right muscle or nerve he would let go. The hand around her arm tightened, hard enough to bruise and the king said something Marianne did not catch. His other hand covered her face and her fingers convulsed and dug deeper into his flesh, waiting for him to snap her neck, or force her toward the table and the bowl of poison.

He did neither.

“You will be killed.” He said and she registered the familiar words. His tone was contradictory to what he said. It was not voiced like a threat and the hand cradling the side of her face was gentle. Marianne looked up into his eyes, her breathing fast and desperate, trying to figure out what he meant. Was he telling her to resign herself? Never. Whatever her end was, she would not go quietly.

She struck the hand from her face. “You want me to give up? You want me to play my part like a good little girl? Go ahead, kill me! Rip me to pieces! Do your worst, but I won't play your games!”

The king's face hardened and he bared his broken teeth in a snarl. Marianne just snarled back.

Occupied with staring down the king, Marianne was caught unaware when thing fingers dragged down the skin of her face, smoothing lines of the paste down her cheeks, across her jaw, and down her neck. The goblin in blue veils.

Eye of newt and toe of frog, Marianne thought.

And wing of butterfly.

Marianne shuddered at the thought and the thick substance growing sticky on her skin. She wasn't sure if it was just nerves or something else, but her skin seemed to tingle underneath the stripes. Maybe it was poison. She shot a quick glance at the bare hands that had applied it. Maybe not. Or maybe the veiled goblin was immune.

“What is this?” Marianne asked, uselessly, tilting her head toward the bowl and the goblin's stained fingers.

“Strength.” The king said in response to her gesture.

“What--?”

The king drew a claw across the palm of her right hand, which he still had restrained. Marianne gave a hoarse gasp of surprise and pain and wrenched away. The king just pulled her back forward, drops of blood splattering her shoes and the stone steps. She tried to claw at his arm, to position herself for a punch or kick, or anything at all.

A dagger was thrust into her hand, the smooth hilt pressed firmly against her skin. Marianne closed her fingers around it automatically, but looked up, expecting a trick. Perhaps she was to be goaded into an unfair fight, to be slain in battle for the sake of whatever ritual this was. To let the king reclaim lost honor. If he thought she would be less of a challenge with only a knife instead of a sword he was very much mistaken.

The king released her and extended his left hand, fingers straight and palm up.

Marianne held the knife in preparation for attack, her eyes flicking between the king's face and his empty hand.

“Cut.” He commanded.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Marianne seized his wrist and brought the knife slicing across his hand, intending to cut to the bone. His hide was tougher than she anticipated and while she left a deep line in his hand he hardly more than winced in discomfort, bloodying her arm when he grabbed her arm and twisted until she was forced to drop the knife from numb fingers. It clattered and chipped on the stone floor, metal flashing and blood gleaming wet.

“Let me go!”

The king forced her right hand up and suddenly the veiled goblin was there, emptying the contents of a small glass bottle over the wounds on their hands. It was murky and thick, cold on Marianne's throbbing hand, mixing with their blood and dripping to the floor. The king forced her hand up, pressing her right hand to his left, the blood and potion mixing between them. The king laced his fingers through hers and clasped her hand tight so she could not pull away, his other arm around her waist and pulling her so close she could feel the plates of his armor shifting when he moved. She hoped he couldn't feel how she was shaking, how her fingers trembled in his. If he did, she hoped he thought it was only from pain and not from fear.

“Let me go.” The words came out as a plea and she despised herself for that weakness, but her vision was fuzzing and the sound of her own voice very far away. She was almost grateful for the hand pressed to her back, how heavy and real it was, how it kept her upright when she felt the strength beginning to fade from her legs.

The hold he had on her shifted from restraining to almost comforting and his words brushed gently past her ear when he bent his head down to her. Everything was fading, the room growing dark, the sound of the crowd distant, even the feeling of his arm around her was almost gone. The only thing still vivid was their hands, clasped together, wounds hot and painful.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered, his lips barely moving. Marianne heard the reluctance in his voice, his unwillingness to do this, but his resignation that it was inevitable. No, she hadn't heard it, she could barely even hear the words. She felt it, like a heavy weight in her chest, a guilt that was not her own. It pressed down on her, thick and gray, until it blurred out everything else, choked off her breath, and blocked out the light.

There was nothing left but a tiny space, barely big enough to fit her and the king, and growing smaller all the time.

“No.” Marianne gasped, not sure if she actually managed to say the word out loud. “No!” She ripped her hand out of his and pushed his chest, shoving him away. There was hardly any space, just enough for her to pull away from him, back up against the wall in her effort to escape the heaviness that dragged her down.

“Don't.” Marianne wasn't sure if she heard the word or felt it, the weariness and guilt, a knowledge that was not her own, that told her fighting was useless.

“No!” She screamed, she was sure she screamed. She clawed at the wall, she beat it with her fists, she felt blood running down her arms and panic beating in her chest. The walls ignored her demands and continued to shrink until her back was pressed up against the king and he wrapped his arms around her. Turning, she beat at him with her fists, hoping that he would be more yielding than the walls.

He just held her tighter, his arms and his guilt chaining her down.

The room was getting too small, she was being crushed against him, the plates and spikes of him cutting into her skin, the fingers on her back fitting into the grooves of her ribs and sinking into her flesh. She couldn't move, couldn't scream, and she was flooded with feelings that weren't her own and she was reviled by the intrusion. Squeezing her eyes shut she tried to block it out, fill up her head with her own things until there was no space for anything else. She thought of the ocean, deep, vast, and blue, blending into the sky so that it seemed endless. She thought of waves crashing over the sand and dragging at her feet.

Of the current dragging her under.

Pulling her down, deeper and deeper.

She fought to reach the surface, fought to leave this alien place, salt burning in her eyes and mouth, longing to once more be in the cool shade of the forest. To listen to the wind playing among the leaves, watching the play of sunlight slotting through the canopy, snug and safe in the hollow of a tree, the wings on her back twitching to fly patterns in the sunlight.

Panic flooded her.

She didn't have wings.

These weren't her longings.

That wasn't her safe place.

Where was the ocean? Where was Marianne?

In the distance the waves thundered and a whiff of salt air drifted through the trees. Pushing through the brush she stumbled into sand, dropping onto her knees and grabbing up handfuls of it. It was damp and gritty, so different from the rich smell of the forest floor. It got under her claws and armor and itched.

No!

Marianne! She was Marianne! She was--

The endless blue was beautiful, but terrifying. They needed to get back beneath the trees, back under their sheltering green. But their hands clutched at the sand and their legs would not willingly unbend.

There were forests beneath the ocean. Forests of coral and seaweed, where fish darted like birds, where there were rocks to shelter under. There was wind in the forest, whipping through the trees like the sound of waves on the beach.

Forest and ocean mixed together until mighty trees stood beneath the waves and far from sunlight and great whales floated peacefully above the tangled mess of the forest, keening softly. And they could not remember if this was right or wrong or if it had always been.

Wrong.

 _Wrong_.

They tore apart.

Mixed and tangled, mossy forest and sandy beach, they were ripped apart into two halves. Not separated, like pieces that had come unglued, but like a weaving, torn in half. Neither half making sense without the other.

Marianne—was she Marianne? She seemed to be mostly Marianne—cried at the pain, the empty ache inside of her. Something had been torn right out of her and she reached out, sensing it nearby. She found a hand, limp and sticky with the coppery smell of blood. She seized it and for a moment felt relief from the terrible emptiness, but it was brief. It wasn't enough.

She wasn't whole.

The hand didn't move to take hers, her other half wouldn't reach out to her.

She was empty and alone, deprived even of her own company.


	2. Chapter 2

Marianne remembered crying.

She remembered sobbing, loud and violent, and her throat burning from it.

She remembered growing tired and tears streaming down her face while she gasped for breath.

She felt like her skin had been ripped off, leaving her muscles bare and raw. Or maybe it was her heart that had been cut out, because she felt empty, like great hollows were echoing in her chest. Nothing made sense and she was so very alone.

It shouldn't hurt. To be alone. It was what she had decided on. After everything with Roland. She had decided that she would be strong enough to stand on her own, strong enough that nobody could drag her down again.

Now she was so lonely she was crying from it and she despised her own weakness.

There was a desperate need to fill the emptiness inside her, like she was fighting to simply breathe. And somehow she knew that the pieces torn out of her were nearby, that she would be whole again if she could just reach them, and somewhere in the midst of her disoriented sobbing she began to crawl. That was when she found her body was shaking, her muscles weak and seizing, a deep ache in her bones like the worst fever she'd ever had. Crawling a matter of feet was agonizing but it was worse to try and lay still.

There was wood underneath her hands, rough on her knees, and her hands were grubby with dirt and splinters as she blindly made her way to some unknown destination. She was so close, almost there, if she reached out she could touch what she had been searching for. So she reached out a hand, vaguely aware of a dull colored bandage wrapped around it, and sought with trembling fingers for the thing that would stop the horrible emptiness from aching like a tooth hollowed by decay.

Marianne's fingers touched wood.

She slapped her hand flat against a wall, breath catching in her throat. No, there couldn't be a wall in the way. There couldn't be! Peace and rest was on the other side of that wall! She would stop hurting if she could just pass this wall.

“I don't understand.”

She didn't understand why this wall was in her way. She didn't understand why she needed what was on the other side so badly. She felt like a diver who had surfaced for air only to find they were still trapped underneath the water. The sun's yellow glow was visible through the rippling current, but unreachable.

“I don't understand!” Marianne slammed her fists into the wall, then again. Then again. And she screamed, ripping at her already raw throat. “ _I don't understand_!”

* * *

 

On the other side of the wall the king shivered from a fever that was not his own and pressed his hands over his ears to block out screams. There was no way he could understand the words, but the pain, the hollow ache, burned in his own chest and unbidden tears leaked from the corners of his tightly shut eyes.

He had resolved himself to be strong, not to care, not to show weakness.

Yet there he was, his back pressed to the wall and his wings flickering when he shuddered at her screams.

“She crawled off the bed again.”

The king would have struggled to rise if it had been anyone but his mother. She thought no less of him for huddling on the floor. Likewise, she would have thought no better of him if he stood and postured when she knew he was shaking with the borrowed fever.

Hands on her hips and bare foot tapping on the floor the king's mother twisted her long mouth into a displeased frown. “I managed to get her tucked in again, but she'll be out again the moment my back is turned. You need to go to her before you kill yourselves.”

“That would please the council.”

“I'd smack you upside the head for saying something so stupid if I didn't know it'd hurt the poor thing too. She's hanging on, but your idiocy is making it hard on her.”

“If we live then we live. If we die then we die.”

“Your stubbornness only looks even more ridiculous when you're shivering on the floor.” His mother snorted, laying a blanket over him and reaching to feel his face and check his temperature. He jerked his head away from her touch, teeth bared in the faint promise of a snarl. “Take care of yourself.” She continued, pulling her hand away, “And now that means taking care of her too. You're not alone. Not anymore.”

The chasm that gaped inside his chest provided evidence to contradict his mother's statement. Huge pieces of him had been ripped out and replaced with traces of something that was not his. The harsh burn of salty water still seemed to hover around him.

He thought of the visions of crashing waves that had filled his mind during the ceremony. There was no word that he knew to name the great expanse of water that churned endlessly, disturbed by some unknown force. There was no reason for there to be one. Such a thing didn't exist. It was huge and empty and entirely unlike the cool safety of his kingdom. The creature in the other room, she was too different. She would never understand the beauty of his forests and resentment bubbled inside him at the thought of her knowing his thoughts and feelings about it but not _understanding_ them. It was like she had stolen a treasure from him and treated it like useless trash.

Shuffling noises in the other room made the king realize his mother had left at some point. There was a solid 'thunk' of wood on wood. The bed. His mother had moved the bed against the wall. He could hear her hoarsely murmuring to her patient, felt his throat tighten when some vile medical concoction was administered and reluctantly choked down. He felt the closer proximity begin to sooth both of them and he could not help rolling over and resting his forehead against the wall in an effort to get a little closer.

Eyes closed and half-asleep, the king felt a ghostly touch brush across his face. It was familiar and unfamiliar. It stirred up childhood memories of running to his mother for comfort, of her rough hands stroking down his hot, tear-stained face, brushing back his tussled crown of leaves. How long had it been since he last accepted the comfort she never failed to extend in her own clumsy way? A long time. Right now he had no way to refuse it and allowed himself the luxury of this second-hand affection as his mother soothed her patient on the other side of the wall.

She—the invader, the warrior—slipped into an uneasy sleep and the king felt oddly numb, as if he were asleep with his eyes open. His breathing evened out, but the emptiness never ceased to gnaw at him and his hand throbbed from the wound that had been re-opened when she had pounded at the wall. He clenched his hand closed around his own wounded palm, hoping the surge of pain would distract him from his desperate longing to tear through the wall.

She made a noise, a small sound of pain, that he could barely hear through the wall, and he looked down at the fresh blood staining his bandaged hand.

He wasn't sure when he had gotten to his feet, much less entered her room.

The sight of her brought momentary relief before the need to be closer overwhelmed him again. But he wouldn't touch her. He wouldn't.

“I'm sorry.” He held up his wounded hand toward her, “I didn't mean—I never meant . . . none of this was supposed to happen.”

The words came out in an unsteady gasp as he fought to keep from rushing to her side. She was just barely awake, staring at him with eyes made brilliant by her fever, pale face flushed red.

“No one deserves . . . this. Not with me.”

She said something. He had no idea what, but the glimmer of a tear streaking down her face just as she closed her eyes broke something inside of him. Her shaking hand reaching out toward him finally undid him and he was across the room in a moment, her bandaged hand in his, all his resolutions forgotten.

The emptiness vanished so suddenly that the king's head swam as he pulled her closer and she wrapped her arms around him in a fiercely tight hold. The bitter taste of salt mixed with the scent of pine, the two fighting for dominance and failing to achieve balance. But both of them were too tired to fight hard and the king sank into the bed with his arms around her, her head tucked under his chin.

They let the cool darkness of sleep overcome them, washing away the burning fever and throbbing wounds until it was just them, clinging to each other in the dark.

* * *

 

Marianne flickered above the forest floor, weaving her way through the trees, close to the ground to avoid any possible airborne dangers but not low enough to be snagged by something on the ground. There were great roots rising up out of the ground, draped with moss and studded with mushrooms. The natural curl of the roots made for excellent cover while flying and she relished looping through them, twisting and turning, spinning in the air to avoid a trailing vine and flying upside-down.

It was better than bouncing around in zero g. There was a weight and realness that zero g lacked. There were no metal walls to box her in, only the forest that seemed to go on forever. No matter how many trees she passed she could not see an end to it. That made her worry. The forest seemed limitless but the entire time she had been flying she had not seen one single other person. Creatures stirred beneath leaves, stray sunbeams catching their shells when they scuttled from one hiding place to the next. But no people.

She was alone.

Marianne surfaced from the dream, the cool gloom of the forest scattering and blurring into indistinct spangles of light shining through her closed eyelids.

It was the dryness of her throat and mouth that woke her and soon she had compiled a long list of complaints to make about this unwelcome state of consciousness. Her eyes were sticky with sleep and seemed to be glued shut, her skin was itchy with dried sweat and unwashed clothing, and she had definitely not brushed her teeth the night before. Shifting slightly made her aware of the fact that she had been sleeping on top of her left arm and it had gone numb. Which was for the best, because every other inch of her body ached like crazy.

Naturally, she was reluctant to open her eyes and official face reality. Also, in spite of everything she felt . . . not comfortable . . . contented? Safe? She couldn't place the feeling and her dry throat was keeping her from focusing.

Another experimental wiggle confirmed that she hurt. A lot. Also that the blankets had wrapped around her, restricting her movements. Except . . . they didn't really use blankets on the ship. The temperature of the sleeping quarters were regulated so they wouldn't need to carry the excess weight of bedding. She hadn't used a blanket in months. Also, blankets weren't usually so, well, _scaly_. Heavy, her shirt catching on it when she moved. The incongruity of the texture of the object resting on her shoulder, when she expected a blanket, finally made her peel her eyes open and take a groggy assessment of her surroundings.

Sunlight was coming from behind her, warming her back, while in front of her was nothing but gray shadows. Gray shadows that were snoring softly, rising and falling underneath the hand she had curled on rough layers of armored plates. Gray shadows that had draped an arm over her, a hand resting on her back, gently pressing her close, tips of claws pricking through her shirt over her shoulder blades. Another hand was fitted over the back of her head, fingers tangled with her hair, holding her head tucked into the curve of the shadow's neck where she could hear the beat of a pulse.

It took a surprisingly long time for Marianne to work up to the levels of anger and panic she thought appropriate in reaction to waking up snuggled against the alien king who had, last time she checked, been intending to kill her. There was a horrible suspicion lurking in the back of Marianne's mind that if she didn't need a drink of water so badly she might have been tempted to wait a little longer to extract herself.

After managing to shove the still sleeping king far enough back that there was the necessary space required for her task, Marianne slammed her fist into his face with every bit of strength she had available. Which, granted, was not much. Even sitting up left her shaking, and the blow jarred her all the way up to her shoulder, the breath knocked right out of her. However, it was the inexplicable crack of pain across her face that unbalanced her so badly she slithered awkwardly off the bed, trying to cradle her hand and her face at the same time, the difficult task complicated by the fact that her left arm was still half-asleep.

“What.”

The word was a flat, pained sound in contrast to the translator's monotone dictation. While Marianne scrambled to her feet she heard the rustle of wings and rasp of shifting armor as the king rose from the bed, one hand pressed to his face.

“Isn't that _my_ line?” Marianne asked, her voice cracking. “What happened? What happened? What did you—what did you do to me?”

Memories of the previous—day? How long has she been out?--were jumbled in her mind. There had been knives, and some sort of weird drug, hallucinations and then . . . oceans and forests tangled up together and the alien king's arms around her, binding her, weighing her down, trapping her . . . Marianne tried to imagine what had happened after she passed out and her mind flinched away from completing the train of thought. Drugged and waking up in bed with some monster . . .

Standing had seemed to solid idea before she actually tried it out. Now that she was on her feet the room was spinning and her stomach was churning with an uneasiness she couldn't pin-point the cause of. It could have been the result of any number of things. Waking up cuddling with a strange alien, for one. But, honestly, that just made her angry and not even as angry as she wanted to be. It could be caused by the pain that had smashed across her face the moment she had smashed her knuckles across the king's face.

The king stood, twisted his head sharply to one side with a loud crack while he gingerly touched the corner of his mouth and examined the smear of blood that came away on his fingertips. He looked as wrecked as she felt and she could see his hands shaking.

“What's going on?” Marianne coughed on the words. Her legs were shaking so hard she was sure she'd fall over any moment. “Why am I—why are _you_ \--? _Don't touch me_!”

The king had come toward her, his movements almost as unsteady as her own, his hands out to take her hands. Marianne reeled back, stumbling, trying to scan the room for a weapon or exit, but everything was blurring and she was suddenly in free fall, plunging into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take no responsibility for this story. I just basically wrote down what Katy told me to and here it is.
> 
> This has been sitting in my files for months and I figured Strange Magic Week was as good a time as any to post it.


	3. Chapter 3

Marianne woke from a dreamless, uneasy sleep when she tried to turn over, rising back into the waking world when the movement sent waves of pain washing over her. Everything hurt. Even her nose hurt. Like a door had been smashed into her face.

“Careful,” A hoarse voice admonished her, “Lie still.”

There was more, the translator unable to find an English equivalent. It sounded a lot like motherly fussing, especially since the untranslated words were accompanied by a cool cloth laid on Marianne’s head and the bed covers being twitched neatly back into place.

The feeling of a blanket rubbing across her arm brought recent memories into the forefront of Marianne’s thoughts and her eyes flew open, checking to make sure she was the only one occupying the bed.

She was.

Marianne let out a breath and tried to feel relieved.

“Now, now, it’s fine.” A hand patted her arm, “I’m looking after you, my girl.”

The translator spat out several options for ‘my girl’. Child, feminine. Daughter. Possibly a general term of endearment, like calling a boy ‘son’.

“You drink this and rest. How’s your nose?”

The question was odd enough that Marianne made and effort to focus on the person before her, accepting a cup of something that seemed to be hot tea as she sat up. It was the person from before the … ceremony. Who had been looking after Marianne before.

“My nose?” Marianne coughed out the words, quickly sipping at the tea to clear her throat. It was very hot and the heat of the cup warmed her hands and seemed to pull her a little bit more into focus.

“I said, how’s your nose, moss bunch?” The translator glitched over the last word and Marianne wished this creature would stop using so many of what seemed to be pet names. And stop patting her hair and fussing with the blankets. “My son hit his nose pretty hard when you two fainted. He’s been growling about it all day.”

What did it matter if someone else hit their nose? What did it have to do with Marianne’s? And did this person actually mean 'son’ or was it another untranslatable nickname? Marianne swallowed more tea, tipping the cup so far up that drops ran down the corners of her mouth.

The goblin continued to fuss, remarking on a need to get Marianne something better to wear, that the king was sulking—the translator was pretty certain that the word was indeed 'sulking’–and about how the whole place was in an uproar because of recent events, “You made quite the impression!”

Since most of the goblin’s endless chatter seemed to be commenting on everything Marianne already knew she tried to tune it out and take stock of her situation. The goblins had taken everything except her clothing and her translator. No radio to call the ship for help. Not even anything to tell her how much time she had lost to the fever. No way to know if anyone had started looking for her yet. Also no way to know where she was, except that she was still probably in the same building. That was something, at least. Once she got outside she would easily be able to tell if it was indeed the same building and she knew to walk east toward the ship. If she could get her gear back and get outside …

Marianne’s planning was interrupted when she tried to move her legs and swing them off the bed and she was sharply reminded how much she hurt and how weak she felt. The cup of tea was shaking visibly in her hands, ripples running through the dark liquid and catching the light like tiny waves.

The thought of waves reminded her of the dreams. Or maybe they were hallucinations from whatever they drugged her with. Whatever the cause, the ocean had been brought to the forefront of her thoughts and she felt a longing for the crash of breaking waves. Marianne had always loved the ocean, but after the Roland Incident and her arguments with dad she hadn’t been able to find any solace in it anymore. When the opportunity to explore a planet completely devoid of oceans and seas came up Marianne took it as a sign and jumped at the chance. Now, though, the thought of the beach in summer, of floating weightless in the saltwater, seemed like the only important thing in the world and being so far from it was impossibly painful.

The cup was taken from her hands just before she dropped it.

“Now, now,” The goblin admonished, “You shouldn’t sit up so long.”

Marianne looked at them blankly. She couldn’t make herself focus any attention on them, her ears were straining for the sound of … the ocean? No. Something. She didn’t know what. But she wasn’t hearing it, it wasn’t here, and that wasn’t  _right_.

“Feeling bad, fluffy-top?”

The buzzing glitch of the translator made Marianne flinch, her attention snapping back to her immediate surroundings. She needed to get out of here. Find her gear. Find the way out. Head toward the ship. Straightforward. Simple. Start by getting out of the bed.

The goblin started making tsk tsk noises the second Marianne’s feet poked out from under the covers and Marianne found her ankles seized and her legs firmly replaced on the bed. Dull anger warmed in her chest. Marianne needed to  _leave_ , it should have been obvious even to this goblin. Marianne needed to leave and find … find what? Her gear? No. Well, yes, but there was something else too. Something else, something more important than anything else, and she couldn’t remember what it was.

Marianne shoved her legs off the bed and set her feet on the floor before the goblin could intervene.

The pain involved in the simple act of standing was shockingly intense. Muscles in her calves spasmed and her knees wouldn’t stay stiff, the joints swinging loose like a rusty hinge. She slid to the floor before she could fall, gasping at the pain and racing of her heart.

“No, no, no!” The goblin continued to get in the way, trying to help Marianne off the floor. Marianne slapped at the helping hands, trying to think if she could crawl to the door, if her fever-weakened body would allow her at least that.

“You stay  _put_! You’re still sick!”

Marianne was getting desperate. She needed to leave, she needed to find—something! She could almost see the needle of a compass swinging around and pointing her in the right direction. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew where to look for it. But the goblin was holding her, trying to maneuver her back to the bed. She didn’t want to go back to bed! She had to find–

“What’s going  _on_?”

The sound of irritated growling did something strange to Marianne. There was a flood of relief that made her go boneless in the goblin’s arms and slip right back onto the floor. Tears stung her eyes because she had found it. The important thing. It was so close. She still needed it to be closer, but now the distance she had to travel was reduced to almost nothing. Surely she could crawl the small distance left.

“I told you it would be too far,” The goblin said, once again trying to help the uncooperative patient.

“I can’t neglect my kingdom just for …  _that_.”

The compulsive need to go searching was now satisfied and Marianne’s head began to clear enough to allow her to pay attention to the conversation. And to see who the goblin was talking to.

It was the king.

Marianne reeled back, memories of the nightmare in the throne room flooding back along with the recollection of waking up to find him in her bed.

The room was spinning and at least a dozen pairs of inhuman hands seemed to be grabbing at her. Some were thin and stubby with only two fingers and a thumb apiece, others were huge, three fingers and a thumb tapering off into jagged claws. Some of the clawed hands had bandages wrapped around them. Only the left ones, oddly enough. She was surrounded by them and a babble of incomprehensible noise, voices and electronic screeching. One of the clawed hands tried to settle on her shoulder and she shrank from it, but it only followed her.

She grabbed the persistent hand and tore at the bandage wrapped around it, half-remembering that there should be a nasty wound that she had put there herself. Driving her fingernails into the hand’s palm, she hoped to use pain to deter it from advancing any further.

A sharp noise of pain sounded somewhere overhead. Marianne almost didn’t hear it, distracted by the stab of pain in her own hands that made her drop her attack. The effort of clawing at the hand had reopened the wound across her right hand. But pain also throbbed across her left.

“Get off, you–”

The translator wasn’t up to the task of whatever the king was saying, but from the venom infused into his tone she could easily imagine what the English equivalent might be.

Shocked into clarity by the pain, Marianne saw that the king was kneeling by her on the floor, cradling his left hand as fresh blood trickled down his wrist. Marianne could almost see the pulse of his heartbeat as the blood pumped out. She could  _feel_  it. Feel her own pulse in her right hand, but his in her left.

She slammed her right hand into the floor.

The king howled and his right hand contorted in a spasm of pain.

Marianne hit the floor again.

Another howl.

Marianne let out a gasping laugh, disregarding her own pain and raising her hand again.

The small goblin caught her by the wrist, “Enough. Back into bed.  _Both_  of you.”

A noise of protest escaped Marianne.

“Not together,” The goblin snorted, “If I leave you two in the same room alone you’ll rip each other to pieces. Bed. Now.”

“Mother,” The king said, beginning to voice a protest.

“ _Now_!”

Back under the covers, Marianne watched the king being herded out of the room while the goblin—his mother—flapped her hands at him.

Marianne looked at her shaking hands on top of the dull background of the blankets. Red palm on her right, red fingertips on her left. Her blood and his blood. Her pain and his pain.

Exhaustion was overtaking her again, but her last conscious thought was,  _I can use this_.

* * *

Marianne got a grim satisfaction knowing that her pain caused the king discomfort, too.

In the process of a painfully slow recovery from whatever had been done to her, Marianne could not get out of bed for another two days. Forced into inactivity and stillness Marianne had very little to occupy herself. She saw no one except the king’s mother and a few glimpses of curious goblins cracking open the door and sneaking a peek when they thought it was safe. Watching the king’s mother twist the floppy ears and drooping noses of the peepers was the extent of Marianne’s entertainment.

All there was to do was think.

Think about how there was no sign of anyone coming to pick her up.

About how she felt the king’s pain and he felt hers.

In addition, she had a strange sense of where the king was at any given moment. It wasn’t exact, just the direction he was in and a feeling of him being far or near. At night, when she and the king were on the edge of sleep she could feel his heartbeat in her left hand. It did not beat in time with her own.

For all her time to sit and think she could not figure out what they had done to her or why. Tethering her to the king like this, was it some sort of initial step in some unknown plan? Would it change from sharing pain to bearing all his pain? There wasn’t enough information. All she had were wild guesses and someone else’s pulse beating away in her wrist.

She needed more information.

And maybe a little revenge.

On the second day of Marianne’s bed rest she waited until she felt the king was near and fiercely pinched the skin of her arm. Yelps and shuffling from the other side of her wall confirmed that her experiment was successful. She had no way of knowing if it worked at a distance, when he was out of hearing range, but during the rest of the day she pinched herself or kicked her toes against the wall from time to time, imagining the king yelping in pain during a council meeting. If leafy insect aliens had those, that is. If she annoyed him enough he would make sure she knew it and her small hoard of research would grow a little bit bigger.

It took the king the better part of a day to figure out what she was doing. Marianne knew he had puzzled it out when she sensed his annoyance rolling along ahead of his heavy footsteps. When the door banged open Marianne rolled over to face him, giving an exaggerated yawn and stretching in a lazy manner. She raised an eyebrow at him.

The king glared at her.

She folded her arms and glared back.

He looked like he was going to say something, but snapped his jagged teeth shut and spun around to leave again.

She couldn’t let him leave without confirming that he felt the pain at a distance. Marianne drove her nails into the sore skin of her arm. A hiss and the sound of the king tripping over his feet greeted her ears. She snorted and rubbed her arm to ease the soreness.

A sharp pain slashing across her arm startled her into crying out. Cradling her arm and gasping, she sought out the king in the doorway. He stood there, his black-clawed thumb tipped with red, a deep gash on the unarmored underside of his forearm welling up with blood.

“Stop doing that,” He growled, “It’s distracting.”

Marianne threw a pillow at him.

Her arm strength was not yet up to her usual standards and the pillow plopped down halfway between the king and her bed.

The king laughed.

Marianne grabbed another pillow and glared at him.

The laugh was gone in a moment, the king’s customary scowl creasing his features. He tilted his head, hand still pressed against his arm to slow the bleeding, “You understand me?”

The question made Marianne’s heart skip a beat. She had gotten used to being talked at without anyone expecting her to understand or reply. A question directed at her was like a layer of protection being ripped away. It froze her in place, clutching the pillow to herself while she tried to decide if she should try to answer the question or play dumb.

“You do,” The king came into the room and Marianne shoved herself to the far side of the bed, “You don’t speak but you understand speaking?”

“Stay away!”

“How can you understand speaking but not know how to speak?”

“Don’t touch me! Stay away!”

The king’s bandaged hand rested on the mattress as he leaned closer, as if an examination of her face would reveal the answers to his questions, “Why did you have to come here?”

“If I had known it was inhabited by two-legged cockroaches I would never have come here, believe me!”

The king’s fingers curled into the mattress, ripping holes in it and revealing a mossy looking interior, “Are more coming?”

The king was too close.

The king was not close enough.

Marianne’s right hand was curled into a fist over a handful of pillow and it twitched, longing to reach over and lay itself on top of the king’s hand on the bed.

She hit him in the face with the pillow.

After the king had left in a huff, Marianne had to concede that her battle of pinching and poking the king long-distance was one that would only end in a stalemate and that she had gathered all the information she could for the moment. The pain sharing was a tool she could use, but she shouldn’t squander it over petty revenge. Satisfying as that might be.

It was the third—or maybe fourth—day when she was able to get out of bed and walk around without too much wobbling. Everything still hurt. Even the tips of her ears seemed to hurt. But it was a hurt she could work through, the weakness of fever was fading. Maybe whatever they had done to her was wearing off. After a couple days of pacing around the room to regain her land legs—diving back into bed whenever she heard someone at the door—she felt she might be ready for a little exploring. She had to admit that going out into the forest in her state was basically suicide, but she  _could_  find her gear and maybe send a signal to the ship.

While the thought of Roland coming to her rescue made Marianne’s stomach turn sour, she was willing to swallow her pride if it meant getting home. However, if she couldn’t send a signal she found her alternatives to be vastly more appealing. Fighting her way out, for example, and forging her way through the perilous jungle to return to the ship in triumph. That was a daydream that sustained her through her endless pacing of the cramped room.

Brief excursions revealed little beyond twisting passageways full of dust. When she dared to venture further she was quickly discovered and swiftly escorted back to her rooms. She wasn’t limber enough yet to be as quick and stealthy as she needed to be. That didn’t stop her from managing to get to the outer walls the—possibly—fifth day.

It would have been tempting to try and escape then and there, with the forest in sight, smelling fresh and of freedom. Except, in her haste to avoid some goblins, her unsteady feet tripped on some stairs and she slammed her shoulder into the wall. The king was there in an impossibly short time and ordered her to be taken back to her room.

“Your son is a tyrant and kidnapper,” Marianne told the king’s mother.

“Yes, yes, fluffy-top,” The goblin murmured soothingly, smoothing down Marianne’s covers before bringing over a tray of food.

“I’m being held against my will. You have only yourselves to blame when I punch a hole through the wall of your tree house.”

“Make sure you eat this all up, fluffy-top. You’ve had a busy day.”

“I refuse to be mothered,” Marianne grumbled, stabbing a spoon into a bowl like she was sticking a knife in the king’s heart, “I refuse to accept your kindness at face value. You’re one of the people holding me prisoner and therefore the enemy.”

“Don’t pick at your food.”

Too tired to keep up the one-sided argument, Marianne applied herself to the food. Recovering from the fever left her ravenous. Her activities when not trying to escape were stuffing her face or falling into a dead sleep. At least the food was edible. After tentatively sampling the fare placed before her and waiting to see if her system rebelled, she discovered no consequences except that she stopped being so hungry and dizzy. She still refused to eat anything that looked like fungi, however, because you never knew. A slight different in physical makeup could mean that a mushroom revered by goblins as a treat would be deadly poison to her.

And she had never even really trusted plain old Earth mushrooms in the first place.

After the king’s mother started allowing Marianne to eat something other than tea and broth, the majority of the food was either meat or root vegetables. And mushrooms. Since Marianne knew there were no mammals on this planet she quickly realized that the source of the meat must be from insects and amphibians. If she hadn’t gone through survival training that would have been more disconcerting. It was still pretty disconcerting, considering the size the creepy crawlies had to be to produce this sort of meat. But Marianne had always enjoyed a good toasted grasshopper and she was too hungry to be squeamish. At least the meat was cooked all the way through.

Half the meal was still left on the tray when sleep started dragging Marianne back under. She put the tray on the floor, regretful of being unable to finish but determined not to fall asleep with her face in a bowl of shredded lizard tails or whatever. Her shoulder was developing an impressive pattern of bruising from her fall and she arranged himself to lay on her opposite side. Her back was tender, too. But it had felt that way for a couple days and she thought it might be from spending too much time laying down. The sack of moss that served as a mattress wasn’t exactly chiropractor recommended either. She hoped the king was enjoying his share of her discomfort.

All the same, she was recovering. She’d get out of here soon enough. There had been no signs of what the goblins planned to do with her, but she was fairly sure they had to be planning to do  _something_. After all that ritual in the throne room, it seemed almost anticlimactic to just be left alone to rest. She had expected to be killed. The king had told her she would be. Maybe that was coming. Maybe they needed time to prepare for another kind of ceremony, or they only killed prisoners every other month for cultural reasons. Whatever they had planned, Marianne planned to be hacking her way through the forest and to freedom before they could do it.

For now she slept and dreamed of forests and oceans.

* * *

The king woke in the middle of the night, aching all over. He ached right down into his bones, like a terrible fever, burning him up from the inside. The bones of his face felt like they were straining to crack apart. Even his ears throbbed. The pain was so intense and all-consuming that he couldn’t even move, couldn’t even call for help. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and ran down his face as he struggled to keep his breathing steady, fearing that if he gasped for air it would jar him and worsen the pain.

The pain was horrible. It was going to kill him. His life was going to end here, alone, far from everything he knew, everything he loved–

The king started at the rush of feelings, realizing they weren’t his own. He shoved at the pain, pushing it back to its source until it abated enough for him to get out of bed and stalk toward the warrior’s room. Her pain lay around him like the shimmering of heat in a forge. Red-hot pain flickered from all sides, trying to trickle past his guard and envelope him again. He felt his own footsteps striking the warrior’s ears like the blows of a hammer and when he pushed the door open he heard her gasp and start at the noise of his entrance.

“What are you doing now?” The king demanded, a jab of shared pain making him snap the words out. He resented this shared pain disturbing him. He resented the horrible impulse he felt to rush to the warrior’s side and take her in his arms.

A little moonlight from the window outside the open door trickled through and pooled in the warrior’s eyes as she looked up from where she lay huddled on her side. The reflection of light drew the king’s gaze and he met her eyes. The gold of her eyes, gilded over with the silver of moonlight, drew the king in. For a moment there was no distance between them, there was no separation.

Everything was too much. The soft ambient sounds of the night clattered in their ears with deafening intensity. The mossy pillows and leaf-like blankets touched them like harsh sandpaper. Even their own clothing felt rough enough to scrape their skin off. If they could have moved they would have crammed themselves into the corner of the room and clamped their hands over their throbbing ears. But the pain would not even allow them the attempt.

The warrior closed her eyes, the moonlight disappearing, and the king shook his head, trying to sort out his thoughts from hers. But the king’s irritation at being plagued with the echo of someone else’s aches and pains crumbled away. The heat of pain drew closer around him as he sat down on the edge of the bed, gently so as not to shift the warrior. When he repeated his question his voice was gentle.

“What are you doing?”

Marianne tried to answer him. Tried to make a remark about how  _he_  had done this to  _her_. She wondered if this was the next step, if this is what the ceremony was supposed to do. Settle poison into her bones and set her on fire until she burned away into nothing. A slow, cruel punishment for besting the king. But she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t barely breathe. Movement cost her dearly, but she still tried to get closer to the king. She needed to be closer. Somehow, her only hope of this pain ending was to be closer.

This close to the warrior the king could feel the deep aching pain that seized her. But from his end, not feeling the pain so keenly as she did, he thought it felt oddly like growing pains. When he had been young he had sprouted up in height and size so fast he felt like his bones were cracking as they stretched. That was what he was feeling now, only much more concentrated.

It was dark in the room, but that didn’t matter to his eyes, intended for seeing at night. And even if he closed his eyes he would be distinctly aware of the fiery warrior’s exact position, as if the pain outlined her in the dark. They both shuddered when he ran a fingertip along the edge of her ear. He half expected the warrior to take offense at the gesture, but she did nothing more than cringe. Even his light touch scraped roughly across her skin and he almost pulled away, except he had noticed something odd. The warrior’s ears were tiny, round things, flat against the sides of her head, but now his finger caught on a sharp point. Further delicate exploration showed him that her ears were now shaped more like his own.

Everything seemed to be hurting her, and he started to clear away the bedding that was touching her until she laid on the bare frame of the bed. That gave them momentary relief and no more. A terrible wave of fear and loneliness washed over the king and he was dizzy with it. The loneliness of the fierce alien woman resonated with his own, stabbing through his anger and irritation and making his eyes fill with tears to match hers. She had been so wild, so fierce, that he had not stopped to think how very alone she was in this world that was not her own, among people who looked as strange to her as she did to them. He resented her arrival in his kingdom so bitterly, but no more bitterly than she regretted it.

And she did regret it. Marianne regretted every choice that had led her to this moment. The choices that had estranged her from her father, distanced her from Dawn, trapped her for two weeks on a spaceship with Roland. Now, here she was, the strong independent woman who didn’t need anybody’s help, dying on an alien planet.

Alone.

He was alone.

He felt her reach out, pain to pain, exploring his sorrows with the same delicate care he had used to examine her ears. He felt her understanding of his isolation, how he was surrounded by his subjects but not of them. How he had chosen this existence, drawing into himself and shunning the touch of others. How he feared to be hurt. Feared he would cause hurt. When the world breaks you there’s nothing left but shards, fit only for cutting anyone who dared come too close.

Somehow, her hand had crept into his.

The touch broke down his resistance and he gave in to his need to comfort the warrior, slipping his arms around her and drawing her close. When her face was resting against the hard plates of his chest, his hand cradling the back of her head, the pain halved. His back stiffened and his wings rattled as he struggled not to push the pain away again.

The king’s willing acceptance of his share of the burden reduced the warrior’s pain to almost bearable levels and she relaxed, letting out a sigh that might have been words of thanks. He made a vague humming noise in response. The pain was the least disconcerting thing for him right now. Pain was familiar to him, in all its forms, but the strange connection between him and his unwilling other half, that was something else. It went past a mere sharing of pain and somehow he was becoming attuned to her very thoughts and emotions, finding in them unexpected parallels to his own. There was the ever familiar anger, but beneath that there was more, a fiercely competitive spirit and a joy in combat so much like what he had once possessed. Their fight had been fun, he admitted to himself, absently running a fingertip over her ears again. More fun than he could remember having in years.

Somehow he felt … balanced. Everything was where it should be. His warrior was in his arms where he could feel her heartbeat. That heartbeat was all he had wanted for days, though he had not known it. Or, at least, not admitted it. In the pattern of the warrior’s heartbeat he read her story of betrayal that had broken her heart, of her fear and pain since coming to his kingdom. Of how much she hated him.

How much she needed him.

How much she just needed him to be in the same room, to be close so that the emptiness inside her would not ache quite so much.

After days of restlessness Marianne finally felt at peace again. She still hurt terribly, but her hands were curled on the front of the king’s chest and faintly through his armor she could feel the beating of his heart. It was matching time with her own heart and somehow that felt right.

Now he could feel her slipping into sleep despite the burning in her bones, worn out from the pain and loneliness. The balance, the connection, hovered on the edge of vanishing, ready to dissipate the moment she fell asleep …

A spasm of pain ripped through their backs.

The warrior arched backwards in the king’s arms, choking on a scream that wouldn’t come out. The king growled and his wings buzzed in response to the attack. Instinctively, he held her tighter. Both of them cried out when his hand pressed too hard against her back. Even when the king removed his hand he could feel the excruciating tightness across the warrior’s back and shoulders. Even the touch of her tunic on her skin was too much for either of them to bear.

Pressing her head against his shoulder, he searched the back of her clothing for fastenings. Finding none, he snagged the fabric with his claw and began to rip an opening. He pulled it away from her shoulder blades, then tore it open completely from collar to hem, knowing her relief at the lifting of the pressure, and caught a glimpse of what looked like a blister that covered most of her back.

Tears were pouring freely down Marianne’s face now. She had wrapped her arms around the king’s neck and was crying into his neck, her chin caught on the uneven edge of his carapace’s collar. She felt like she was going to split open. She wanted to scream from the pain but it had stolen her voice and sealed her throat with its intensity. She just wanted it to stop. Just make it stop, make it stop, please just make it  _stop_.

Spasms of pain continue to rip through the warrior’s body and since she couldn’t scream the king found himself crying out in her place. She was so small, so soft, this torture could kill her. He found himself tugging on the pain, pulling it into himself until the warrior could breathe again and rest.

Feeling the pain receding, Marianne focused on recapturing the king’s heartbeat. She made herself breath in an even rhythm, slow and steady, giving both their hearts’ a pattern to follow. Aware of an imbalance, Marianne picked at the edges of the pain, pulling it away from the king until it rested evenly on both of them. Then, at last, their hearts beat in sync and the pain became bearable for both of them.

It was hard to tell how long they stayed in that timeless moment, a precarious balance achieved. The pain was growing more intense. It was all they could do just to keep existing, keep breathing, cling to each other and keep the balance.

Memories of the forest in summer drifted through Marianne’s fragmented thoughts. The tight pinch of old skin before being able to wiggle free, the relief at being able to move again, even if it was at the cost of being soft and vulnerable for a while. One of the final molts, when a horrifying surprise accompanied the shedding of old skin–

Pain ripped across Marianne’s back.

Too fast. It was happening too fast.

The king knew what was happening. His feeling of his realization soothed Marianne’s fears even as her muscles seized, pulling tight until she was certain something had to tear. She could feel the king hesitating over a decision, something that might help. Or might not. Marianne didn’t care. All she cared was that this excruciating pain might stop.

The king hoped that the desperate trust the warrior granted him was not misplaced. He slipped his claw into the swollen skin of her back, feeling a trickle of liquid leaking over his fingers. The warrior inhaled sharply but remained still. With great care, he sliced down the length of her back, taking care to part only the topmost layers of skin. His free hand pressed the warrior close, his fingers clumsily tangled in her hair as he tried to give her some comfort.

Marianne felt the liquid trickling down her back and wondered if it was blood. She felt her back split open and she was positive that she was falling apart, that her muscles were being peeled off her bones and pulled out of her. Something emerged from her back, raw nerve ends screaming as things moved that she was positive should stay still. Despite the king’s comprehension Marianne felt panic rising up inside of her over the sheer bizarreness of what was happening, of what she was feeling. It was wrong. _Wrong_.

The king murmured something Marianne couldn’t hear but she could feel him shaking his head. Shifting in his seat on the bed, the king reached over and did something to the wall. Out of the corner of her eye Marianne saw the wall slide away, revealing a sort of loose wicker weave that let in the light of the rising sun. She closed her eyes and turned away from the overwhelming brightness.

The warmth of light over the warrior’s back triggered instinct, as the king had hoped, and the wings that had been laying wet and dead down her back twitched into life. Wings, not yet full grown and only falling to the warrior’s knees, unfurled.

The king was awed. Purple flowing wings spread out before him, twitching and billowing clumsily. The sunrise seeped through them, lighting up the room with a purple glow, the translucent color of the wings vivid against their black edges and veins. The unexpected beauty of it took his breath away and he pushed the fiery woman back a little, so that he could see her face framed by the wings. Her face was tear stained and pale, but the pain had gone out of her eyes.

“Beautiful.” He breathed out the word.

Marianne’s translator was not always accurate, but she was fairly sure that it had gotten that word right. She might have brushed it off, but the kings face, which had always been scowling and dour, was filled with wonder. For the first time his leafy brow had lifted enough to dispel some of the shadows that darkened his face and she could see how vividly blue his eyes were.

Her face was burning with confusion now, instead of fever, and she pushed the king away, feeling her wings drop back down as she moved. Because, yes, there were wings on her back. She could see them when she craned her head around. She strained her arms, trying to feel the unexpected appendages now sprouting from her back, loose flaps of skin moving under her fingers, peeling away from tender new muscles and skin.

The king took her hands to stop her from picking at the shedding skin. She looked up at him, feeling exhaustion draping over her in heavy folds now that the pain had subsided. There were a hundred questions she needed to ask but all she managed to get out was a wavering, “ _Why_?”, before she started to cry.

There were wings on her back.

Butterfly wings.

She could  _feel_  them. Where they rested on the bed, where they stuck damply to her back. If this was some new hallucination then it was a convincingly real one. But it couldn’t be real. None of this could be real. This alien planet full of bug and frog people and trees that were too big. This past week of torture and imprisonment, dreams of oceans in forests and forests in oceans. She wanted to wake up and find herself back on Earth, home again, with Dawn, Sunny, and dad, and all the normal little mundane workings of a normal day in a normal life.

But she also just wanted the king to hold her again.

And he did.

He held her, singing songs of comfort in a deep, soft voice. As she fell asleep the sound trailed away, replaced by the mysterious noises of a forest on the break of day, and somewhere in the distance waves were rolled in and out across the sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not responsible for this AU. I merely write according to donotquestionme's exacting specifications. So blame her for everything. :D


	4. Chapter 4

“Looks like a final molt.”

Marianne had been floating beneath the surface of wakefulness until then, the murmuring of discussion tickling her ears for some minutes before she consented to crack her eyes open and pay attention to what the clicking voices were saying.

“Tell me something I don't already know,” The king rumbled softly, alerting Marianne to the fact that she was resting with her head on a pillow on his lap. His hand was on her bare shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently up and down when he noticed her stirring.

“There's always an exchange,” The first voice continued, sounding annoyed, “It's not surprising that this time it would be more extreme, considering. Though I didn't expect it to mix up with the strength so much, to be honest. It's unusual, but these _are_ unusual circumstances.”

A hand touched Marianne's wing delicately, pulling it open.

The sensation of someone touching her new limbs made Marianne gasp and wake up completely. The edge of her wing slapped the over-familiar hand as Marianne sat up and pushed herself back across the bed, retreating until she had her shoulder pressed up against the wicker screen that covered the window and she could go no further. Vertigo made everything swim and Marianne wove her fingers into the wicker screen, holding herself up until the dizziness passed and she could take in the room and its occupants.

The person speaking to the king was the veiled goblin from the throne room. The sight of the layers of shimmering veils sent a dart of fear stabbing into Marianne's stomach. The image of purple butterfly wings flailing helplessly before the pestle ground them down flashed through Marianne's eye, making her stomach roil with irrational terror.

“I don't think she likes me,” The veiled goblin remarked.

“Who does?” The king grumbled, “Are you done?”

“I suppose so.”

“And?”

“She's fine. Nothing to worry about. Just keep her in bed for a day or two. And look after your own, hm, new additions.”

“New--?”

The king held up his hands when the veiled goblin pointed at them. Marianne could see lumps swelling on the sides of his hands, almost like—

“Fingers!” Aura chirped, “Four fingers and a thumb, just like your--”

“Get _out_ , Aura.”

The veiled goblin—Aura—swept away, leaving Marianne alone with the king again. Marianne looked away from him, gripping the wicker and staring through its weave. There had been a window right next to her the whole time. She wondered if it would be boarded up now that she knew it was there. If they didn't she could possibly try climbing down to the forest floor.

Or fly down.

She stared at the forest, bathed in the soft light of the rising sun, admiring the view with great determination, ignoring the king, ignoring the tingle of wings on her back. When she shrugged the ragged edges of her shirt back up over her shoulders she hissed at the cloth touching the wings. She could feel the shreds of skin that had sloughed off to free the wings. Where the king had ripped her back open.

She flinched when the king remarked, “I wonder if I should expect to start sprouting hair, too.”

Looking over her shoulder she could see the king was rubbing at the swollen sides of his hands. She could feel the tightness in her own hands, the heat of his swollen skin, like an infection beneath the surface. She found herself mimicking his gesture, worrying her hands together to ease a pain that was not hers.

“They were sensitive yesterday,” the king mused, “I must have overlooked them because . . . because of everything else.”

He glanced over at Marianne.

She looked away.

She didn't know how to feel about the king now. She couldn't manage to hate him at the moment, not after he had come and willingly pulled the pain out of her until the agony was bearable, stayed with her, comforted her. And she had felt . . . felt something of him in those moments of balance between them. There was no malice in him. Nothing of the smallness she had expected to find in him. For she had expected him to be narrow, petty, and cruel. She had every reason to think he would be.

But he wasn't.

And that wasn't fair, that he had made her see him as . . . as a _person_. Not just a cardboard cutout villain who did cruel things for the sake of cruelty. Why then had he done this to her if it wasn't a punishement, if it wasn't just to make her suffer for damaging his dignity..

“There are questions I would ask,” the king knit his fingers together, tapping the nubs together experimentally, “If I had any hope of you being able to answer me. I'm sure you have your own questions.”

Marianne's hand flew up to the translator clipped behind her ear. She could give it to the king, get some answers from him. It would be a risk. Revealing the translator might get it confiscated to prevent her from understanding what was going on around her.

But there were wings on her back and it sounded like the king knew why.

Unclipping the translator felt strange. She hadn't dared take if off since her capture and her ear was sore where it had pinched. Ears that were the wrong shape now, tapering to points like some sort of fairy tale elf. Or just a fairy, Marianne amended, thinking of the wings.

Hitching up her shirt again, Marianne scooted across the bed until she was sitting next to the king with her legs folded underneath her. The wings hung from her back like dead things, dragging across the bedding which felt as rough as sandpaper.

“Lean down,” Marianne told the king.

He blinked at her, leaning away as far as he could without tumbling off the bed.

“Fine, be difficult,” Marianne reached up and grabbed the collar of his carapace, pulling him down so she could clip the translator behind his ear. She could feel that he wanted to pull away, but the contact of her fingers on his ear made them both pause, her hand hovering just shy of cupping the side of his face. She could touch his face, let her hand slide around to the back of his neck and let herself hold him and be held by him and just . . . breathe. Find that balance that had been so briefly achieved last night, when their heartbeats had matched and everything felt right. So perfectly right.

She clipped the translator onto the king's ear so tightly he yelped. She slightly regretted the action because she didn't want him to be offended and refuse to answer her questions, and also because her ear hurt now.

“No, don't move it!” Marianne smacked his hand away when he reached up to feel the device, quickly adjusting it for him, “You could break it.”

The king obediently took his hand away.

Then he did a double take.

He said something that was no doubt something along the lines of, “I can understand you!”

Marianne shook her head at the unintelligible words and clicks, “It only works for the one wearing it. You can understand my language now, but I can't understand yours.”

The king looked confused and asked her something.

“Okay, take it out—no, let me,” She took it off and held it up in front of him, “You can't understand me, right? Okay, dumb question. But put this back in and you can understand me now, right? No, _stop_ talking! _I_ can't understand _you_ when I'm not wearing that!”

The king rattled off something that sounded accusatory.

Marianne held out her hand.

The king gave her back the translator.

She motioned for him to speak.

“How can you speak and then not speak? Understand then not understand?”

“Look—ugh,” She pulled the translator out of her ear and put it in the king's, “You can understand me, right? Just nod. I take it out and you can't understand me, right? Just looked puzzled if you don't understand. Now, back in again—you can understand me?”

The king nodded.

“The translator—the thing—lets you understand my language when you're wearing it.”

The king shook his head, obviously discomforted by the translator buzzing when it couldn't find an equivalent word. Squinting, the king said, “Language?”

He spoke the English word, or a mangled version of it anyway.

“Uh, yes, language? How I speak, how you speak . . . languages? English? I speak English?”

The king passed her the translator back, “There is only speaking. You speak or you don't speak. You don't speak? You . . . inlish?”

“English. I speak English.”

“You inlish?”

“No—yes—I guess? Yes, okay, if that hurries this conversation along, yes, I English. You speak, I English. The translator lets us understand each other. Sort of. Now that we've established that I am going to ask you a question. Then you're going to give me back the translator and answer my question. Got it?”

A nod from the king.

“Good, great. Okay, question: _why do I have wings_?”

“In the ceremony,” The king began, rubbing at his hands, “There is an exchange of strengths. When it was uncertain whether you would survive the ceremony or not it was decided to give you more strength. I'm not sure that you weren't given too much. Wings are not something that usually transfers in the exchange.”

“But fingers do?” Marianne pointed at his hands.

The king held up his hand, rubbing at where his pinky finger was growing, “Smaller is more usual. The coloring of skin, the shape of ears.”

When the king gestured at her Marianne's hand went up to touch the new point on her ear. That was less distressing than wings. Maybe she would even keep them when she got home, a souvenir of her disastrous first mission. There had certainly been stranger fashion choices than walking around looking like a Tolkien elf.

“Most things are not seen. You will be able to eat our food and I would be able to eat yours. What illness I am immune to, you are, and the reverse.”

“Great. Now I have no reason to be picky about mushrooms,” She changed positions, accidentally crumpling a wing under her knee.

“Be careful!” the king helped her smooth the wing out, “They are still fragile, young. They'll grow strong enough to fly, I think, but right now they are young.”

“I don't care--” Marianne swallowed her remark, remembering he couldn't understand her.

Unless her wings could fly her back to the ship she wasn't very interested in whether or not they were functional. Judging by the size of her wings the king was correct and they would have to grow significantly before she could even think of trying to make them bear her weight. Since she was going to be on her way home long before then, it wasn't important. Also, the smaller the wings were the easier it would be for the doctors to remove them safely.

She moved back over to the window and leaned her shoulder against the screen, feeling the breeze whisper into the room, stirring up the stale air and whisking it away.

This was fine. Everything was fine. She just had to get back to the ship, and once she got home everything could be fixed, everything would be fine. She would be immune to the diseases of another planet, that was not a bad thing. Wings and ears could be dealt with, cut off, tidied away, and she would be herself again, too far away to share the pain and feelings of the king.

Because, surely, the distance between two planets would be far enough to sever the strange bond that been forced on her.

“I feel your pain,” Marianne said, “Why?”

“The bond. The sharing,” the king paused, searching for the right words, but in the end just shook his head and said, “You need to eat.”

Marianne wearily clipped the translator back behind her ear, tired of his stilted conversation, filled with gaps and pauses while they fumbled with the translator and struggled to phrase questions clearly. She was hungry. Beyond hungry, she felt pale and empty.

“You need to eat,” The king said, standing.

Pain shot through Marianne's foot and the king sat down heavily on the bed.

“Oh, lucky us,” Marianne said, leaning over the side of the bed and seeing the nub of a pinky toe forming on the king's foot, which he had managed to stub on an empty floor, “you get toes, too.”

“You need to eat,” The king repeated, carefully getting to his feet again, “And I have work to do.”

“You're not leaving--!”

Panic was a tight band around Marianne's chest. She almost grabbed the king's hands to pull him back, keep him from leaving. She couldn't stand the thought of him being somewhere on the other side of the castle, so impossibly far away.

“I'm not leaving you here,” The king said, “The study is . . . too far away for today. And I have more questions.”

“ _You_ have questions? Listen, buddy, nobody is going anywhere until--”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I have a feeling it was an objection. The night was long and I am too tired to deal with objections.”

“Hey!” Marianne protested when the king picked her up. He flicked her wings out of the way so they draped freely over his arm as he carried her bridal style.

“Still can't understand you,” The king replied, deadpan, carrying her out of the room.

“You—you idiotic flying cockroach!”

“Back to shouting, I see. Give me the charm so I can understand whatever curses you're throwing at me.

Marianne obliged and continued, “Put me down and let me walk!”

The king just shook his head, a gesture Marianne had long ago established meant the same on this planet as it did on her own.

“I can walk,” She insisted, somewhat sulky in tone. She did not miss the king distinctly rolling his eyes. She gave up, deciding not to waste her energy on this small battle.

She hated how she was secretly glad for the excuse to be carried.

* * *

The king hated how glad he was to have an excuse to carry the warrior.

Even though her hunger gnawed at his stomach too he couldn't force his feet to quicken their pace. He walked with a steady stride, but without hurry, savoring every moment spent without the aching hollow in his heart.

The sounds of the castle's inhabitants bustling about their morning tasks faded into the background, lost beneath the soft sound of the warrior's breathing. Opening the door of his study, the king was hit by the noise of activity like a slap to the face, jarring him from the few peaceful moments of balance he had enjoyed on the short walk from the warrior's room. As a crowd of clerks, officials, and messengers vied for his attention he remembered his resolve to appear strong, to not appear dependent on his unwilling partner. So he set the warrior down in a chair, refusing to let his hand linger when he took her arm to help her balance as she settled her wings.

He had never seen anything like those wings.

Yes, he had seen the tiny insects that flew on such wings, but they had been of no importance to him. Tiny, flitting things, frighteningly delicate compared to most of the creatures that dwelt in his forest. To see them on the back of the warrior was strange. Though she might have been confined to bed for most of the king's acquaintance with her he had never once thought she was as delicate and useless as those pretty little snips of color.

The crowd was quickly dispatched, a few barked words alloted to each member, a stack of paper dropped on the table, and one messenger sent scurrying off with a message for the king's mother. In a exemplary display of his mother's dependable efficiency, there was breakfast on the table in only a few minutes.

The warrior looked at the king warily when he pushed the food toward her. He returned the charm to her before saying, “I know it would please you to go hungry and see me squirm, but would you . . . please not?”

The warrior looked stubborn, but only for a moment. She grumbled something and pulled a bowl towards herself.

“Can't understand you,” the king muttered, picking up some of the papers that had been dropped in front of him.

The warrior glared at him.

“Can understand _that_ ,” he remarked.

The warrior ate and the discomfort of her hunger abated, clearing the king's head a little. Not enough. His head was still full of confusion over the warrior's little charm that let him understand when she . . . spoke? Inlish? When she inlish. Even Aura did not have such a device in her bag of tricks and potions. It begged the question of what sort of place the warrior came from.

From a kingdom in the sky, a place so high above the forest that wings could not reach it.

“Ow!”

The warrior dropped her spoon when the king bumped his tender hand against the table. He hunched his shoulders up and tried to ignore her scowl, “It's _your_ hands that are shaking.”

The warrior huffed out a breath but did not bother to argue the point.

Her hands _were_ shaking. He could see the unsteady movement of her spoon as she lifted food to her mouth, the way her fingers trembled when they held a cup. It was a battle not to let his pen sputter ink across the page of a report about a lizard that had got into someone's home and could not be got out again.

It was apparent that the warrior was not recovered. She could not be expected to. A molt like that happening over only a few days, the rapid growth of the wings. It might have killed them. It would take more than a brief nap and a large meal to put her right.

The king's pen rattled across the table when the warrior nodded off, making his sight blur. The noise woke her and she sat up with a start, flinching when her wings made a sluggish attempt to flutter in surprise.

“Try to stay awake,” the king snapped, his temper shortened by his share of the pain.

The warrior pushed the charm toward him.

“No. I'm busy.”

The warrior pushed it toward him more insistently.

He took it.

“Do you fall asleep when I do?” She asked, then waved her hand when he started to return the charm, “Hold onto it, I have more questions. A lot of questions.”

The warrior was breathing short, quick breaths, and the king's chest felt constricted, preventing him from drawing enough air into his lungs. But the warrior was still talking, her arms wrapped around herself, fingers white as they clutched her shoulders.

“I mean, I still don't understand why I have wings . . .”

The king started to answer, but stopped, remembering it was useless. He took the charm back and shoved it at her, “I don't have time for this. _Later_.”

She shoved it back until he put it back on, “Keep it for a minute. You work, I'll think of questions I want to ask when you're done.”

The king shrugged. Just so long as she left him alone, he would wear the charm.

The warrior sat back and to compose her questions. Out of the corner of his eye the king could see her stirring her spoon around in wobbling circles. The tightness in her chest remained, but the king ignored it, turning his eyes to his work.

There was so much to get through, it had been piling up over the past few days. For a little while he lost himself in it, vaguely aware of the warrior emptying dishes of food and tapping her fingers restlessly on the table in a way that irritated him. But she asked no questions and made no truly disruptive noise so he let her be.

Halfway through a stack of complaints about someone poaching on other people's territory, the shaking in the king’s hand got noticeably worse. He shot a resentful look at the warrior, but she was huddled on her chair, hugging herself again, staring at the tabletop. She was tired. _He_ was tired. He could feel their exhaustion looped and magnified between them. The letters were dancing on the page in front of him and he wondered if it would better or worse to send the warrior away.

The pang in his heart warned him it would be worse. Just the thought cast a cloud of gloom over him. The room was illuminated by sunlight, but the king felt the same foreboding sensation as one did when a heavy storm was rolling in and the air grew heavy.

And his hands would not stop shaking!

The king threw down his pen and turned to snap at the warrior.

She looked up at him, the pupils opened so wide that the golden color of her eyes was reduced to a thin rim around the edges of the black.

The pen rolled off the table and onto the floor, the gentle tap of its landing making the king jerk his head around to see what the source was. All his senses had heightened, as they did in a fight, or when he was hunting and kept alert so he would sense the danger approaching in time to flee. He scanned the room, looking for the danger, looking for what subtle clues had alerted him.

There was nothing. Nothing in the room, no sound of hidden assassins trying not to breathe, not even the sound of approaching footsteps. There was only the king and the warrior, both of them breathing fast as if in preparation to bolt as soon as the imaginary danger appeared.

There was nothing there.

The king picked the pen up off the floor, hoping that the mundane little task would help the world to right itself. There was nothing wrong and the room was still.

The warrior shoved away from the table and crumpled to the floor so abruptly that the king thought something had struck her, his sense of impending danger intensifying. He reached out to her but she was gagging as her breakfast came back up, choking them both when she tried to breathe.

The bond screamed at the king to go to her, help her. He was shaking too, his heart racing so fast that he could barely breathe. Something was wrong, something was wrong and he didn't know what, but he was afraid, he wanted to fly, as quickly and as far as he could, as if pursued by this unknown danger. He couldn't stop it, he couldn't stop it, something was wrong with the warrior, with him. The pain in his chest, his shoulders, it was terrifying, his mind so full of darting thoughts that his head buzzed with them.

This was worse than the warrior's growing pains.

He felt like this would kill them.

“S-stop,” he gasped, clutching his chest, numb hand scattering the papers when he tried to brace himself on the table and stand, “What . . . what are you doing . . . _stop_.”

“Sire?” someone scratched at the door, cracking it open and peeking inside, “Sire, do you need any help?”

It was Stuff, with Thang squeezing his head over her should to get a look inside. They stared at the gasping, vomiting warrior, and the king slumped over his desk.

“I'm getting Griselda,” Stuff said without waiting for an order from the king.

The door snapped shut and footsteps pattered away.

Good. They were getting his mother. She would help. Even just the thought of her was comforting. She was safe and always knew what to do.

The warrior couldn't breath.

 _They_ couldn't breathe.

The pressure on their chest was crushing.

They needed to be closer, share the pain, halve the pain.

The king pitched forward in his chair, trying to get his legs to bear his weight. They refused and he fell back in the chair.

“Oh, sweetheart!”

The king hadn't heard his mother come in, but she was there, gathering up the choking, shaking warrior in her arms. The sound of his mother's voice made the charm screech in his ear and he tore it out, letting it drop from number fingers.

“I think—think—killing us . . .” he choked out.

“Is this hers or yours?” his mother asked, petting the warrior's hair.

“H-hers.”

He thought so, anyway.

“It won't kill you. Get over here, dummy, and you'll both feel better.”

His mother had produced a towel—the king had long ago given up wondering how his mother seemed to always have the right bit of homey paraphernalia on her person for any situation that might arise—and was cleaning the warrior's face.

“You're fine, fluffy-top, it's fine. Everything is alright. My boy is coming.”

“ _No_ ,” the king gritted his teeth, leaning down until his forehead rested on the desk, hoping that somehow that if the room seemed smaller there would be less room for this overwhelming panic that tugged at him, “What's wrong with her?” the king asked, gripping the edge of the desk to keep himself from standing up and going to the warrior. He still wasn't sure his mother was right, that this sudden affliction wouldn't kill them.

“She's scared and upset. Who wouldn't be? Growing wings overnight! Poor little love. I've seen it before. It's nerves, that's all.”

“Doesn't feel like that's all,” he persisted, hoping for further reassurance.

“Get over here, hold her. It'll help, you'll see.”

“No . . . _no_.”

His mother was wrong, this was killing them. His life was going to end because of this interfering little creature that had punched him in the face and smashed his life to pieces.

And all he wanted to do was hold her.

“She should be fine,” his mother insisted, “She'd be fine sooner if you weren't acting like a petulant child. Oh, love, what's wrong, what's got you crying?”

The warrior could not answer the question, but she heard it and the king felt her answer in a rush of emotion and longing.

Home. The king needed to go home. Away from this strange place, fly back to everything that was familiar and comforting. He was afraid, and so tired of being strong, he just wanted to rest somewhere safe.

“Stop!” the king snarled, pulling himself free of the warrior's entangling longings.

“Get over here! I can't carry her to you,” his mother sounded worried, “You can't keep doing this to her! Accepting her and then pushing her away. It's cruel. To both of you.”

Lines were scored into the table, the king digging his claws into the wood, trying to plant himself more firmly in reality and disregard the warrior's desperate sobbing. Each sob crashed down on him like a curl of burning, saltwater breaking on fine yellow sand, each sharp gasp for air pulling at him like the receding water.

“Stop!” the table bounced when he slammed his fist down on it, “I don't want your kingdom of salt and water!”

“No, no, fluffy-top,” his mother said as the warrior pushed herself way from the king, tripping on her wings, “he didn't mean it and he's going to apologize!”

The warrior shook her head, confusion radiating off her, fear because she did not understand.

The king touched his ear, remembering he had thrown the charm away, that the warrior did not have it. She was alone, hurt, and cut off from understanding anything that was said. Guilt curled around the king's heart. She fought valiantly, without resources or allies. He sat in a place of strength and held his power over her, knowing he would always win because this was _his_ kingdom.

Chest burning as he dragged himself from his chair, he scratched at the corner of the room until he found the charm and took it to the warrior, crouching down to slip it around her ear.

She seized his hand, holding to to the side of her face, her tears wet on his skin. Her soft face felt as delicate as the pretty little insect she had taken her wings from, and the king wondered how she could bear as much pain as she did. He kept thinking she couldn't possibly be so fragile as she looked, but the bones of her face were so small, felt so easy to break.

He was tied to this now. This weakness that his enemies would gladly use against him at every opportunity. He tried to defy the bond but it only tugged him harder, dragging him back to this warrior from the sky until he gave in, as he was giving in now by taking her face in his hands and resting his forehead against hers.

Only then did the sense of danger begin to fade and the grip of panic release them.

* * *

Why.

That was the central question. On the surface a simple one, but Marianne already knew it was not. It had already been enough to work her up into a full-blown panic attack once today. The questions, endless questions, had circled around and around in her head until she was dizzy and sick with them. Yet she once again persisted in trying to sort through them.

The king had left the window open, no doubt confident that Marianne would not be able to attempt an escape today. And he was right. She was tucked back up in bed, having been given some drink that eased the tightness in her muscles until she could breathe freely again while she burned with embarrassment over humiliating herself in front of the king. She had lost control, showed weakness in front of the person she least wanted to witness it. She had won some grudging respect from him and now she was afraid she had lost it.

She wanted people to see she was strong, self-sufficient. Not a weeping, shaking mess that had to be hugged and soothed like a fretful infant.

It didn't help that the king was still with her, his presence a reminder of her breakdown. She lay facing the window, watching the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window and moving across the bed. The king sat behind her in a chair by the bed, pulled up close so he could keep a hand on her shoulder.

She did her best to ignore it and try once again to organize her questions.

Why had this been done to her? Why had the king agreed to an arrangement he so obviously hated? It was clearly not through any desire of his that she was trapped here with him. If this was one of Dawn's space opera novels the king would have been captivated by the human visitor's beauty and kidnapped her with the intent of marriage.

Marianne hated those novels.

Their science was always painfully inaccurate.

Romance was not the motivation here. Even if the king's actions hadn't demonstrated that, Marianne could clearly feel his reluctance to even be in the same room as her. She could see no possible benefit the goblins could derive from her presence here.

A hostage, maybe? In case her friends came back to free her? But that made no sense, they would only come back fighting _because_ she was here. And after so many days without a sign of them the goblins must have realized no one was coming.

Of course, Marianne knew they _were_ coming back for her. No doubt they were figuring out a way to extract her without causing a fuss. They might even be nearby, hidden in the forest, waiting for her to meet them halfway. She could picture them in their camouflage jackets, Dawn's golden hair concealed under a cap, Roland's hair gleaming in the gloomy forest because he refused to wear a hat. Said the bill of the caps narrowed his vision.

Even Roland would risk rescuing her. He wouldn't pass up a chance to play the hero and get in her good graces. Really, she would be glad to see his face right now. She still hated him, but it was a familiar hate that was part of her normal life. She'd gladly accept his grasping, greedy hand if it was pulling her free of this nightmare.

The king's hand merely rested on her shoulder, a reluctant contact born of necessity. He didn't want her here. This bond compelled them to closeness, but neither of them wanted it.

Maybe he would let her go, maybe even take her back to the shuttle. He knew she didn't belong here, resented her, he would be glad to see her go, there was no reason to detain her. Now that they had established communication surely he would let her go when she asked.

Let her go home.

He had to.

* * *

The next day Marianne was feeling much stronger.

Strong enough to take advantage of the lax security, which had been eased off due to the assumption that she could not get far, and sneak out of her room. The wings ruined her balance, but she managed by keeping close to the walls as she searched for either her gear or a way out of the castle. She had nothing but the clothes on her back, so she wouldn't complain if she found some weapons or tools to use in a tramp through the forest.

'Clothes on her back' was technically inaccurate, seeing as her torn shirt was held on by knotting the ragged edges above and below the wings, leaving her feeling uncomfortably exposed. The feeling was only heightened by the sensation of wrongness that tingled over the wings. They were not just attached to her, they were part of her, and every time they brushed against something she shuddered at the unexpected touch.

Wandering the passageways, Marianne tried to believe she was traveling in a randomly chosen direction, but she had to admit she was following the pull of her connection to the king. It was like an internal compass, pointing her toward him. She gave in and followed the pull, reasoning that the king might be willing to consider releasing her. Or at least be near an exit she could use.

Before long she heard shouting that she immediately recognized as the king's. Too far away to be translated, but she knew that impatient snarl. The translator buzzed and crackled as she grew closer, picking up bits and pieces of the heated conversation.

“I don't need rest!” the king was bellowing.

Marianne knew that was a lie. She could feel how tired he was. The other participants in the conversation agreed with her.

“The process has had a deep effect on your body and mind, majesty,” they said, “you need time to collect yourself, to recuperate.”

“Do not presume to tell me what I need,” the king hissed, Marianne feeling the hostility he had to whoever he was talking to, “I imagine _you_ would take over while I 'collect' myself?”

The other voice was so calm it was infuriating, “The council exists to inform the king's decisions and to stand in for him should he be incapacitated.”

“I am not incapacitated. I have proven I can fulfill all my duties, as I always have.”

“You continue to make decisions, but with the bond still fresh there's no way of knowing how much her mind is influencing those decisions.”

“I am _separate_.”

Marianne was close enough now that she could feel how the king's hands were closed into fists, and that it was not one person he was arguing with, but several. The council, it seemed. So goblins did have councils after all. She remembered important looking goblins during the ceremony, their eyes glittering and gleaming. In hindsight they reminded her of vultures, circling around a wounded animal, cold and opportunistic.

Was it Marianne they were stalking? Or the king?

If they were attempting to dispose of the king he was certainly having none of it. She almost wanted to cheer him on for standing up to them. She never trusted anyone with voices that calm, that smooth. They poked and teased until you lost your temper and claimed your anger was irrational, that you were irrational.

“You cannot possibly be separate,” one of the council said, speaking as if this was an indisputable fact, “The bond melds you in every way and it is impossible for her not to have influenced your actions. It is simply a question of how much influence she has. Until we know the extent of it it is safer for you to relinquish your power. Temporarily.”

The king's claws were digging into his palms. Marianne rubbed her hands together as she continued to search for the way to the room he was in, peering cautiously around every corner to make sure it was safe for her to continue. She finally peeked around a corner and saw the king.

His back was to her, facing four or five goblins. His body was drawn tight, his wings shimmering a little as they vibrated with tension. His jaw was clenched so tight that Marianne was afraid he was going to crack a tooth.

In contrast to the king, the council members were relaxed, speaking firmly, as if dealing with a stubborn child.

“It is the custom,” one said, “that kings take a leave of absence after the bonding, to be by their mate's side for some weeks, or even months, to rest and grow accustomed to the bond.”

It might have been the king influencing her, but Marianne really wanted to punch that smug goblin in the face. She had to admire the king for keeping his hands at his sides and speaking in a voice that was steady even if it wasn't exactly calm.

“There is plenty of time to grow _accustomed_ to her. She isn't going anywhere.”

“That's not what I've heard. I've heard that she takes every opportunity to run away.”

“The warrior is restless, that's all. Exploring. It is not as if she could go far, or ever leave. You know so much about the bond, you should know _that_.”

Marianne's heart jumped.

Not ever leave?

She shook her head. He was lying. He was putting on a show in front of the council. Passing off her escape attempts as the exploration of a curious guest. Politics and lies went hand in hand.

But why did the king feel so resigned to the idea that this arrangement was permanent? Why did he not argue to just send her back where she came from? Then the council would have no reason to doubt his judgment, if she were not here to taint his thoughts with hers. It was almost like he would let her go if he could.

If he could.

She felt panic growing, squeezing her chest.

It was an irrational anxiety. Just general stress from the whole situation.

There was no way she was really, irrevocably trapped here.

“Of course,” a goblin soothed, “the bond has been forged, the decision cannot be changed. But that only reinforces the point: her thoughts will always be tangled with hers, your opinions and motivations blurred together . . . it will be so forever.”

Forever.

The king slumped a little at the word. He did not fight it, as if it were a fact that could not be changed, no more than he could change the color of the sky or halt the passage of the sun.

He didn't want her here, but he didn't let her go.

Was it that he _couldn't_?

Panic spurred Marianne into motion, turning around so fast she almost fell into the open, her wings slapping the corner of the wall.

She ran.

* * *

The king glanced at the doorway, narrowing his eyes when he saw it was empty. He could have sworn he saw something there, something that made his heart twist with panic. Had it been . . .?

“You are under an enormous amount of stress, majesty,” said a webbed eared councilor, displaying a smile that was missing several teeth, “I cannot imagine what it must be like to be tied to one who . . . _dislikes_ you so greatly.”

“So difficult to tell what nagging thoughts come from her mind or yours,” another nodded in agreement.

The king ground his teeth together and fought the urge to clutch at his heart. The constant, aching hollow of the warrior's absence grew worse the more he let his thoughts dwell on her, but he could also feel her panic. Something had happened, something had distressed her.

He had no time to deal with her, he was fully occupied dealing with the council. They saw that he was plagued with mistrust in his own thoughts and feelings, and they poked at the weakness he fought in vain to hide. It exhausted him, fighting the bond, pretending everything was as it had been before.

The worst thing was that the council was not entirely wrong.

He was suffering, pulled in too many directions, unable to sleep, unable to focus. It was only a matter of time before his ability to rule suffered as well, but he could not afford to let the council take control from him. He would never be able to wrestle it back from their greedy claws. So he was on his guard, every moment, avoiding their traps, proving he was strong, that the warrior from the sky did not control him in any way. His mind and will were his own, unchanged by the bond.

He was so tired.

“Perhaps,” a councilor said, slowly, as if just considering some new idea, “if you will not allow us to ease the burden of your ruling, might we instead take upon ourselves the task of dealing with this woman?”

The idea was presented as if it had only just been thought of, but the king narrowed his eyes, sensing another well-laid trap and irritated by their rude way of referring to the warrior.

“Your attention is split between your duties as king and your duties to your other half. Allow the council to take her into our care, watch her, guide her as she adjusts to her new life.”

“All the while finding ways to bend her to your will?” the king growled, “by which you would bend me, seeing as our thoughts are entangled forever?”

The councilor's expression soured at the king's blunt statement and use of their words against them, “If his majesty is displeased with--”

“Always,” the king snorted, the pulling at this chest distracting him, making him too direct in his speech. This was not the time to make hasty accusations without the means to act on them. He wasn't thinking clearly and the councilors' voices buzzed in his ears like trapped insects. He wanted to get out, away, be anywhere but here. The king was beginning to think the warrior had the right idea as far as escaping went.

“How many times has it been now, that she's tried to escape? That must be draining.”

The others murmured sympathetically over the king's hardship.

“I heard she made it into the forest in one attempt. Such a distance must have been painful.”

“Painful? It's downright dangerous! She's hurt herself more than once and I don't need to remind anyone what would happen were she seriously wounded. I mean, how can we trust a king to control his kingdom when he cannot even control his _mate_?”

The word had no sooner been spoken then the king grabbed the councilor by the throat and slammed him into the wall.

The councilors had come at him like a single creature speaking in many voices, but now he saw them separately, saw that it was Tologt that had spoken with such foolishness, such disrespect. It was Tologt's feet that dangled helplessly above the floor while he gasped and sputtered, pulling uselessly at the king's grip on his neck.

“You will have _respect_ when speaking of your king!” the king hissed, wings and shoulders spread in a pose of intimidation, all pretense of civility gone when he slammed Tologt once more against the wall for emphasis, “ _Both_ of them!”

Raged burned in the king's heart, but it was nothing compared to hollowness in his chest that was growing all encompassing. Nothing was more important than the horrible pull, the need to find the warrior.

The king dropped the squirming councilor, snarling at the distraction.

She was too far away. Trying to escape again, making the distance between them grow too great. Of _course_ she would chose _now_ of all times to do this, just when he was trying to prove that he had control over the situation. Over her.

But he had no choice.

Grinding his teeth together he told the council, “I'm afraid I must postpone this discussion. I need to attend to a pressing matter.”

The king didn't have to see the councilors' faces to know they were unbearably smug. They knew where he was going, what he was doing, and it backed up their claims beautifully. The king couldn't even sit through a meeting without having to get up and fetch his other half out of trouble.

Still, he stalked out of the room without hurry, waiting until he was out of sight before taking to the air and flying down the long hallway.

He could have found a guard and sent them after the warrior so that he could return to the meeting. That would have been ideal. But he would have been unable to concentrate with the warrior so far away, and he could find her more quickly than anyone else, the bond pointing toward her in a straight line.

Which was not always for the best, seeing as he nearly flew into a wall, too focused on direction and not focused enough on the actual layout of the castle. He forced himself to stop and think. She must have already been outside, there was nowhere in the castle that was far enough away to cause this much pain. So go outside and work from there.

He shot past the people milling about in the throne room, waiting for the king to hear their requests, and out through the skull entranceway of the castle, into the surrounding forest. There was space there, open air, that let him increase his speed, lessening the gap between him and the warrior in a matter of a few minutes. She could not yet fly and was forced to go on foot, hampered by bare feet and dragging wings.

Such ridiculous feet, so vulnerable that the warrior had to wear odd coverings to protect them. The king rather wished they had been left in her possession so that he did not have to feel the throb of her cuts in his feet. That, added to the soreness of still growing new toes, put the king in even more of a foul mood. He resolved to simply pick the warrior up and carry her back, no discussion, no arguments, just put an end to this latest escapade as soon as possible.

He was in control the situation. Or soon would be.

The warrior sensed his approach, her lungs burning when she put on a burst of speed in a laughable attempt to outrun him. He felt almost ashamed to overtake such hobbled quarry. She had been so quick, gracefully nimble when she ran from him that first day. Her feet had eaten up the distance with ease and even if he had not been deliberately letting her get away he might not have been able to catch up.

Now she limped through the underbrush, a broken thing caught in a net she could not escape, for all she wasted her energy fighting for freedom.

A flicker of his wings shot the king forward, out into a clearing where the warrior was still running, as fast as her clumsy legs could carry her. Which was to say, not fast at all. It was the effort of a moment to catch up, snag her wrist and end their uncomfortable separation.

“I have had enough!” the king dragged the warrior back a few steps, just to show her he could, “What do you even hope to do here? Annoy me? Because that's a complete success!”

She yelled her nonsense words at him, twisting in his grip, trying to fight him. Why was she always fighting? She must know it was useless, so why couldn't she just resign herself to her fate?

“You cannot go!” The king held on, refusing to let her move away, “Can you understand that? You cannot go!”

She just yelled something else and slammed her fist against his arm. The weak blow infuriated him to an unreasonable degree. She had been so strong when they met and she had punched him in the face. Their weapons clashed and she danced around the throne room with vicious energy mixed with a delight in the battle. A battle that could actually be won. And so she had been the victor, probably for the last time.

When they were bonded she had been destroyed and did not even realize it.

“Give me the charm,” the king demanded, “Let me hear what idiotic reason you could possibly have for causing all this trouble!”

The warrior possessively covered her her ear that the charm was clipped to and babbled more incomprehensible gibberish. All he could make of it was that she was angry, which was obvious even if he had been deaf.

He was sick of this.

Sick of the warrior's stupid games, of her words that weren't words, her pointless rebellion, sick of fighting her, fighting the council, fighting himself. Couldn't she see that they were both broken beyond the possibility of repair? Two broken halves that couldn't even make a whole.

“ _Fine_ ,” he lifted the warrior off the ground by her wrist, struck anew by how light she had become, easily thrown back, away from him, “You want to leave so badly? Then _go_.”

The warrior stumbled, bleeding feet slick with moss and mud. She held onto a fallen tree branch, her hands stained with dirt and her stubbly little claws broken. She just stood there, eyes wide and chest heaving.

The king likewise paused, head reeling from the abrupt separation, taking a moment to regain his voice.

“You heard me,” he did not yell this time, just look her in the eye and spoke firmly, “ _Go_. See how far you can get.

Those golden eyes flicked over his face, suspiciously searching for the catch, but her hesitation did not last long and she pushed herself off the log and took off running, not bothering to look back to see if he was following or not.

A frisson of excitement ran through her, of impossible hope. The king shook his head, turning to face the way back to the castle, standing there as he caught his breath.

The warrior would understand now that these battles were a waste of effort.

And he would quicken her journey to understanding.

Grunting as he pulled against the drag of the bond, the king took flight in the opposite direction of the warrior.

This was going to be unpleasant.

* * *

The massive trees send out sprawling roots that were as large around as any tree from Earth and Marianne ducked beneath them rather than over them, fighting her way through the underbrush, pulling her wings free when they caught.

This was a trick. The king had let her go as part of some trick. Any moment he was going to swoop down on her and drag her back to the castle.

Or so she first thought.

Instead, she could feel him getting further away.

Which, while unexpected, was fine with her. If she got far enough away she would be sure to find one of the areas she and the crew had set up cameras or sensors in, and they had left stashes of emergency supplies in several strategic locations. There would be a communicator she could use to hail the shuttle. Maybe Dawn would be the one to answer, maybe she would hear her sister's voice soon.

She tried not think about why the king had let her go so suddenly when he had thwarted every previous attempt. Maybe he had gotten fed up with her. She was certainly fed up with _him_. His inconsistency was driving her crazy, she never knew if he was going to be kind or abrasive. One minute he was keeping watch by her sickbed, the next he was throwing her across a clearing.

_See how far you can get!_

Maybe he thought she wouldn't survive in the forest alone and be forced to make her way back to the safety of the castle. If so, he had another thing coming. She had practical experience in surviving in far more dangerous environments with far fewer resources. This forest was crawling with plants and animals she could eat, it was practically an open buffet, thanks to her training. Even if it wasn't, she would rather die from exposure or at the claws of some alien beast than give the king the satisfaction of seeing her crawl back to him.

Yet doubts continued to prey on her mind.

She had no compass, no way of telling where she was going. No equipment, no supplies, not even her beam sword. The forest was a massive maze of gigantic trees, she couldn't see more than a few yards ahead most of the time. The shuttle might behind any of these trees, just a short walk away, yet she might pass it right by without ever knowing.

She shoved the doubts aside. No, she couldn't turn back now. She wasn't trapped, wouldn't let herself be trapped on this planet. She'd find one of the stashes, signal Dawn, fly away from here forever. She couldn't wait to see Dawn, see her deceptively sweet face light up in a smile when Marianne made a triumphant return. Maybe Dawn had even saved one of the frozen hamburgers in anticipation of Marianne's return and they would make jokes about bringing a little bit of civilization to a wild planet, laughingly claiming that cheeseburgers were the height of human achievement.

They disagreed about whether or not onions were included in this, but both firmly believed that pickles were a necessary part of the greatness.

The doubtful thoughts would not be put aside. They grew, a writhing mess of anxiety, telling her she was being reckless, that she needed to go back. That unpleasant feeling in her chest was back, worse than it had ever been before. A tight cord was looped around her heart, pulling harder and harder the further she ran.

That pain, that wasn't pain. There was no physical cause, but it ached all the same, like loneliness, like heartache. Even the thought of Dawn's smile was not enough to soothe it away. In fact, it grew so intense that it crowded out the memory of her sister's face.

And it just kept growing.

The cord around her heart was pulling taut, stretching painfully as it tried to bridge the gap between her and the king. It _hurt_. She was too far away, farther than she had ever been from the king before and the bond was begging her to go back to him.

She stopped running.

If she kept going, would it break? She put a hand to her heart, trying to feel something that existed only in her mind. The bond was stretching, but would it break? Would she be free, her mind purely her own again?

She was too far from him.

It _hurt_.

She had to go back, she had to go back! The panic had returned, the panic that had been with her for days, and it was telling her if she just found the king everything would be okay, the panic would leave her alone.

Marianne wanted her sister. She wanted cheeseburgers and a ship that would carry her back into the stars. Her adventures had just been starting when they touched down on this planet, her very first alien planet. She would not let her journey end here.

Even as she made this resolution she found herself turning around, the cord around her heart pointing her true, right toward the king.

It felt right.

* * *

Leaves crunched under the king's feet as he let his tired wings still and drop him to the ground.

The warrior had turned around. Finally she understood, would return to him, ending this awful separation. The battle would be over and they could rest, both resigned to this fate.

He was relieved that she had stopped, not sure how much longer he could have kept flying before it became unbearable. Now that he had stopped he wasn't sure he could take another step away from her. No matter, she had stopped, turned around, and would come back.

It was over.

* * *

Marianne clenched her hands into fists, thinking of the bright, stark interior of the spaceship, with its filtered air and spotless floors. A white ship to carry her home, back to sprawling, towering cities, and the stinging scent of the ocean breeze. Sand crunching beneath her feet as she ran across the beach with Dawn to find a good place to make sandcastles.

Lately she had scorned sandcastles as an activity for children.

She wanted to build sandcastles again.

The bond tugged her away from these thoughts of home.

No.

She wouldn't waste this chance at freedom.

She wouldn't go back to the castle of wood and dust!

She started running again.

Away from the king.

Toward sandcastles.

* * *

The king cried out, dropping to his knees at the shock of the warrior's sudden change of heart. She was getting farther away again, not closer as she should have been. Clawing at the ground, the king struggled to keep from following her, as if clinging to the ground would keep him from being physically torn away by the terrifying, churning expanse of sour water that filled the warrior's thoughts.

How was she still walking away.

 _Why_ was she still walking away.

* * *

There had to be a limit, Marianne thought, fighting her way through the forest as if it were on a steep incline. A limit to the bond's range, a point where its chains would snap and leave her free. If she could push through the pain then she would be free.

Ocean. Sand. Castles. Stars. Dawn.

She could endure this pain for them.

There was a galaxy to explore and a home to come back to afterwards. Maybe she would even build castles in the sand of some new world. So many possibilities, and they were hers if she just pushed through.

The pain was so intense, it couldn't be too much longer before it was all over.

* * *

How was she so strong?

It was incredible.

The king couldn't even force himself to stand and he was shaking with the effort of resisting the warrior's pull. She had to give up soon. She shouldn't have even gotten this far, so she had to give in soon.

So far. Too far.

Just give up, just rest.

The king wrapped his arms around himself, scratching his claws across his armor.

He wouldn't go to her.

She had to understand.

 _She_ had to come back.

* * *

Stars. Sand. Dawn.

Marianne stumbled to her knees, her breathing ragged and throat dry. She pressed her hands to her chest, trying to contain the pain that was eating her up from the inside. Shuffling forward on her knees, a hoarse cry was forced out of her and she fell, hands jarred when they struck the ground, tears leaving from her eyes and into the dirt.

Stars. Dawn.

Couldn't stop now.

Had to get home.

She crawled onward.

Dawn . . .

But the thought of the king was drowning everything else out . . .

* * *

 

The king was sure the warrior would kill them both.

She had stretched the bond impossibly far, pulling both of them until all they could feel was pain and emptiness as they were torn in half.

And image of the yellow-headed girl flitted through the king's mind, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared, a castle of sand replacing it, being washed away by encroaching ripples of water.

This wasn't his.

The trees, cool and fresh, shading and protecting. They were his. Not washed away so easily by a little water. Water was drawn from wells and it was pure, no taste of salt to bite the tongue. Water remained beneath the ground, nourishing the trees.

These things were his.

She was still moving.

Too far too far _too far_

Please, come back. Let that stubborn woman and her golden eyes and impossible strength come back to him.

Then, at last, something snapped, catching his breath in his throat.

The king didn't even care if this was the prelude to death. At least the pain would stop.

* * *

Marianne screamed.

She was so close, so close.

But it was like a rubber band, stretched to its limit until it had to snap back or be broken.

It snapped, striking her right in the heart.

And she was running.

She couldn't remember getting to her feet, but now she was running, back to the king. He was the only thing that mattered and she needed him to be there _now_.

The tide was going out and she was running deeper and deeper into the forest.

* * *

The king couldn't fly fast enough.

He didn't know which one of them had broken first, finally turned around. Whichever had gone first, the other had followed a split second later. Perhaps it had even been simultaneous.

It didn't matter.

All that mattered was that he couldn't go fast enough.

There was no speed fast enough.

They needed to be together _now_.

They had given in, accepted they needed to be together, and now every moment they were apart was too long, unbearable. Tears poured from their eyes as they willed their bodies to move faster. There was no forest, no ocean, only each other.

When they came in sight of each other they would have called each other's names in a cry of relief, had they known them. Instead wordless cries were ripped from them as she traveled the final, endless few yards before they finally, _finally_ crashed into each other.

An ocean wave crashing into a forest, a strange world of salt water and ancient trees churned up with mud and debris, the wind howling across the rippling expanse. The waves tossed branches of ravaged trees up onto the sand even while the water was pull further and further back, exposing dry sand and dying creatures. The two worlds had fought each other for so long, fought to remain separate, that when they finally met the result was devastating.

It hurt, crashing into each other, but after the pain of their separation it went almost unnoticed. The king had still been flying, his wings so intent on going ever faster that he forgot how to make them slow down or stop. He knocked the warrior off her feet even as he took her into his arms.

They fell, tumbling to the ground in a painful heap.

Neither of them cared.

They clung to each other, not in an embrace, but a desperate attempt to be as close as possible, as if the width of their skin was still too great a distance. Not like two people tied together, but two halves desperate to be one whole.

Not an ocean.

Not a forest.

An ocean in a forest.

A forest in an ocean.

Legs and wings burning with overuse, they lay there on the ground in the dirt and leaves, rough sobs shaking them, relieved that it was over, ashamed that they were relieved. They were not whole, but they were tangled, overlapping, the ocean ripping at the walls of ancient trees that tried to block its path.

There was no balance between them, no understanding, no love.

There was just the warrior's bitter realization of the truth.

“You cannot go,” the king breathed when his voice returned to him.

The warrior cried harder because she knew now what he meant. She was trapped, forever, only half of a whole, never complete without the king. They called it a bond, but it was more than that. The two of them had been melded into one and then cut in two.

She wasn't just Marianne. She was mostly Marianne, the shape of her retained when they had been halved, but she was only completely Marianne when the king was there. He held all the missing pieces of her, as she held the missing pieces of him. Even then she wasn't just Marianne, but something else.

“You cannot go,” the king whispered into her hair, holding her so close her bones felt close to cracking and yet she wanted him to hold her closer still. His wings were caught under her arms, crushed in a way that was painful for both of them. But this pain was better than the raw edges of their minds and hearts, strained to the point of breaking.

Marianne needed the king there, holding her, where she could feel the beat of is heart.

But she didn't want him there at all.

She hated him. He had stolen _everything_ from her. She hoped he felt the hate, she hoped it burned in his heart as fiercely as it burned in hers, even as the ocean calmed and the forest stood straighter, no longer bowed by the wind, the two forces too exhausted to clash.

The king could feel her hate, but accepted it.

He already knew he was a monster, a destroyer of beautiful things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably have a lot of feelings about this chapter
> 
> tell us all about them

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written according to donotquestionme/deluxetrashqueen's specifications as a Christmas gift to her.
> 
> Thought I'd post it here for Strange Magic Week
> 
> The title is a reference to David Bowie's song "Space Oddity"


End file.
